The Shadows I Live With Are Numberless
by TeganL74
Summary: When life becomes too much for Merlin, can Arthur and his friends save him from himself? WARNING: Graphic imagery and sensitive issues.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:**

**So, after months of lurking around here, reading all your great fics, and submitting reviews, I've finally gathered the courage to publish one of my own. It's probably not very good, or original, but the guilt at getting so much pleasure from reading everyone else's work, but not reciprocating, has been eating away at me, so here goes!**

**Please don't feel you have to review, and if you do, you don't need to spare me your criticism, just to be nice, because it's my first time...I'm a big girl, and I can take it :O)**

**Anyone who's had a review from me will probably know that I'm a huge fan of whump, angst and bromance (or 'whangmance', as one such recipient suggested, LOL). So expect plenty of that here.  
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**Spoilers: This takes place during season 4 - some time after 'The Secret Sharer', but before 'Lancelot du Lac'.  
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**Warning: Suicide, self-harm, gorey injuries and swearing (hope I got the rating right - if not, please give me a nudge).  
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**Disclaimer: No, I don't own Merlin. If I did, I would buy Colin Morgan, and keep him in my wardrobe...  
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**The Shadows I Live with are Numberless**

**Chapter 1**

Arthur looked up, as he heard the door to his chambers creak open slowly. Before he saw who it was (though he could have easily hazarded a guess; only one person was due to pay a visit to his chambers at that time of the evening, and that same person also never followed the common courtesy of knocking) he heard the crash of something metal and heavy as it hit the floor. It was followed, a second later, by another metallic crash and then another. Arthur rolled his eyes and was about to get up, to prevent any further clanging from drawing unwanted, guard-type attention, when a bony rear end backed hastily into his room, followed by a bent back and untidy mop of black hair. The blue tunic on the young man's back was stretched taut; his arms wrapped around and chin resting on the peak of a small mountain of what Arthur surmised to be his recently-polished armour. Each fine-boned, pale-skinned hand held one of the pieces that had fallen to the floor, in the servant's failed attempt to cart the shining metal plates all the way from the armoury in one go (in all likelihood, because he had left it too late to do so in more than one trip).

Without looking up, or even trying to work out where the table was – he had done this chore enough times to be able to follow a mental map of where he was going - the young man unceremoniously dumped the pile of armour on it, with a resounding clatter. One of the poleyns rolled onto the floor, followed by a pauldron. The dark-haired man stooped immediately, and with a heavy sigh, to pick them up and replace them on the wooden surface. He mumbled something that sounded like "sorry, sire", but still did not raise his eyes to meet those of his master.

Arthur frowned. Anyone witnessing the scene would have wrongly assumed that he did this as a result of his manservant's tardiness and clumsiness. In actual fact, the King hardly paid these traits any attention, after six years of enduring the other man's incurable incompetence, except when he felt the need to verbally spar with him for amusement. What _had_ come to his notice, however, with an increasing - and therefore worrying - frequency over the past month, were the marked changes to the servant's appearance and behaviour. The strangely pleasant ribaldry they once partook of, had become first more forced, then less frequent, and now even one-sided (on Arthur's part), as each day passed. His manservant rarely gave any retorts to the King's jibes anymore and - as was the case again this evening - seemed to be making an effort to _not_ meet his eye.

_Something's not right._ _Something is VERY not right. Something has been not right for some time, but I didn't want to acknowledge it. I mean, he's only a servant, isn't he? I can't be seen to care about the wellbeing of a mere servant, can I? And anyway, he'll only deny there's anything wrong again, won't he?_

"Merlin, is everything...alright?"

"M'fine, sire."

_See! Told you. Does he think I'm stupid or something? It's pretty bloody obvious he's anything BUT fine._

Arthur pondered for a moment on how his frien- servant's demeanour had so drastically altered. The irritating smile had lingered for a while, though it became more and more detached from his eyes. Then it had just disappeared altogether, along with any hint of laughter. In fact, he couldn't even remember the last time he had heard anything more than a bare mumble or grunt uttered from the other man's lips. When their eyes did meet – if only for a couple of seconds, before the servant's gaze was once more down-turned – his eyes were dull; the stormy-blue faded to dead fish grey, surrounded by circles of flesh that darkened further, daily. His cheeks – always on the too-thin side anyway – were now ridiculously hollowed; his skin sallow, almost grey. His shoulders had become so hunched and his back slumped, he could almost be sprouting a small hump. In short, the man looked ill.

_When did he last sleep, or eat? He looks like he's a stone's throw away from passing out. Surely he would have said something, if he wasn't able to keep up with the chores I give him? It's not like Merlin to refrain from complaining about every task he was given, no matter that it was his job to do whatever his master asked him to. Come to think of it, he hadn't done that in a while. The most reaction he got these days was a sigh or a pursed lip and then the man just got on with it...albeit slowly. Okay, I agreed with the others that I would try and get him to talk. But how to start the conversation? I've tried the 'concerned employer' approach, and all he does is lie, most likely so he can end the conversation. What usually gets more of a reaction from him? Maybe..._

"Merlin, you're late. And where's my dinner?" _Yeah, great - that ought to do it...idiot!_

"I.I...sorry, sire," came the stuttered reply and rolled shoulder shrug; eyes glued to the floor. Arthur couldn't fail to miss the slight wince that flashed across the younger man's features, before he schooled his expression into the blank mask he had taken to wearing, when being issued with his master's demands, over the last few weeks.

Before Arthur could stop him or soften his, in hindsight, not very conversation-inducing words, the pale-faced man was heading out the door. The King thought he caught a "Be right back" slung over his servant's shoulder, before he was alone and gawping at the empty doorway.

_Stupid! Stupid idiot! How was insulting him, and giving him more work going to make him talk? You really are the proud prat he used to accuse you of being! I am so not good at doing this sort of thing._

Arthur sighed and sat back down at his table. His mind was still churning with admonishments and dark thoughts a quarter of an hour later, when Merlin returned; a good deal quieter this time. The knock at the door drew Arthur back to the present, for its alien feel. _Since when had he started knocking? How could I have been so blind to these changes in him? Aren't I his frie...master?_

"Enter," he said calmly, though his thoughts were far from being so.

Holding the heaving tray against his slight frame, the manservant shoved the door open with his free hand, before shuffling across to the table, and quietly placing it before the King. Though Arthur had pointedly stared at him the entire distance across the room, Merlin had not looked up once, his head hanging like a beaten dog. Relieved of his burden, he immediately began moving around the untidy room, picking up discarded clothing and righting knocked-over items, with a dragging non-committedness that only served to irritate the King further with each passing minute.

Arthur started picking at the food on the tray unenthusiastically, all the while stealing glances at the younger man's face, trying to fathom what could possibly be driving his servant's dour mood. Eventually, he threw the seemingly sour-tasting drumstick back down on the plate, with a dull thud and a heavy sigh; his appetite had evaporated.

"Alright, Merlin, this has gone far enough," he said, glaring at the dark-haired man, as if by doing so he could forcibly draw the shadowed eyes to his own. "I am ordering you to tell me what's wrong. And don't you dare tell me you're fine - again - as you and I both know this couldn't be further from the truth!"

Merlin hesitated by the bed, where he had been smoothing the covers flat, with uncharacteristic fastidiousness. After a few seconds, his hands resumed their unnecessary sheet taming. No part of his body betrayed the fact that he was even aware there was someone else in the room, watching him.

"Did you hear what I said?" Arthur could feel the ire rising in his veins, like a well-stoked furnace, and had to take a deep breath and then another, to prevent his voice and face from displaying his anger.

Merlin picked up a half-eaten apple from the bedside table, and placed it in the bucket he had left by the cupboard earlier. He paused. "I'm f...there's nothing wrong, sire." He picked up the bucket, and began to move towards the door, his eyes dull and staring resolutely straight ahead.

"Damn it, Merlin," Arthur stood up and exploded, his fist hitting the table so that the knife and fork clanged resoundly. Merlin stopped mid-step, and gasped lightly. "What kind of a clotpole do you take me for?" He waited a couple of seconds, hoping his bait would be picked up by his serv.._.friend, damn it, friend_, and lead to the resumption of their erstwhile witty banter. He frowned as the silence continued, and decided to plough on ahead. "You don't talk to or look at me anymore. You're getting thinner by the day, and you weren't exactly fat to start with, and even a prat of a King can see that you're not sleeping." He sighed, and ran a hand through his already tousled hair. Merlin had placed his foot back on the floor, but otherwise stood statue-like on the same spot, half-way across the chamber to the door.

"And I'm not the only one to notice, you know," Arthur continued. At this, Merlin did raise his head, and look at him for the briefest of moments, before lowering his gaze again to the floor, as if his neck couldn't take the weight any longer. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless, so Arthur persisted with his line of attack. "Gwen, Percival, Gwaine...hell, even one of the stable boys mentioned it the other day...they've all noticed the change in you. And they're all worried. What is going on? Is someone hurting you or threatening to?" A small head shake - barely perceptible, and would have been missed if he hadn't been glaring so intently at the dark haired head. "Then what? Is it girl trouble?"

He expected a smirk, maybe or a derisive snort at this, but all he got was a whispered "No." Arthur sat down again, and folded his hands on the table, to stop himself from clenching his fists with frustration at Merlin's lack of co-operation, when he was doing his damnedest to be so sympathetic. Didn't he realise how difficult this was for him? He'd always been terrible at emotional stuff - that was a girl thing, wasn't it? If _he_ was bothered about anything, an hour with one of the practice dummies soon took care of it. And if it didn't, then he certainly didn't dwell on it as long as Merlin was doing, on whatever was bothering him. But then he had always been a bit of a moody wimp.

Taking a calming breath, he decided to take another line of pursuit. "It's me, isn't it?"

Merlin looked over his shoulder at this, and held his gaze for the first time in he couldn't remember how long. "Sire?" His voice was hoarse, as if he was on the verge of tears, and desperately trying to stop them from flowing.

"I knew it! You think I'm being too tough on you, giving you too much to do, don't you?" No reply. "Look, I know I can be a bit of a task master sometimes, but honestly, you only had to say something. You know I could give you the afternoon off here or there or perhaps get someone to help out. I'd even put up with George's brass fixations for half a day, if it would get you to stop moping," he paused, holding the hopeful smile on his face for a moment, but on seeing it had failed to draw a matching one on his companion's features, the sullen frown quickly fell back into place.

Arthur released a heavy sigh, and pinched the bridge of his nose, feeling the start of a headache coming on. He looked up at the still-stationary form. "Please, Merlin, I..that is _we_ just want to help. Can't you talk to me about it, whatever the problem is? I promise I won't laugh."

He watched his manservant intently for what seemed like an age. Saw the clench of his jaw, the tightness of his fists, the way he held his breath for just that second longer than normal, before forcing it out his nose like a bull about to charge. For a minute, Arthur thought Merlin was about to open up to him, even if it was to rant and rage...he didn't care - anything was a vast improvement on clammed-up nothingness. But then Merlin grimaced and closed his eyes slowly, shaking his head.

"What about if you talk to someone else - Gwen, Gaius, Gwaine...anyone?" he threw his hands in the air in frustration, feeling horribly like wrapping them around the scrawny man's neck and squeezing some sense into his stupid, stubborn head. He should have known he'd be the wrong choice as the one to confront Merlin. He had been the least of various evils. Gwen had been too nervous about making things worse; Elyan was of the opinion that Merlin just needed time and he would snap out of it; while Gwaine's only offer had been to take Merlin to the nearest tavern and get him blindingly drunk for an evening.

Merlin took a deep breath, and then took on a stiff, servile stance, his hands clenching on the sides of the bucket, "Will that be all, Sire?" he intoned, monotonously.

Arthur gave a huge sigh of defeat and flicked the fingers of his right hand in a subconscious gesture of dismissal, looking down at the barely touched food on his plate. "Yes," he grunted in reply. Merlin scooted forwards, not bothering to hide his desperation to escape the icy atmosphere in the room, and his master's unwanted grilling. The door closed quietly in his wake, and Arthur slumped into the back of his chair, his fingers laced together in his lap, a heavy crease marring his forehead.

"Bugger it!" he cursed under his breath.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:**

**Wow, what a fantastic response I got for chapter 1. I don't believe it (no pun intended, Mr Wilson)! Thank you so much to all of you who favourited, followed and reviewed. To those of you, signed on as guests, and therefore to whom I couldn't reply, thank you from the bottom of my heart as well. You guys all inspire me :O)  
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**Again, please don't feel you have to review, if you'd rather not. But if you do, please feel free to be honest.  
**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin...Shine does...lucky so-and-so's!  
**

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**Chapter 2**

Gwen was in a hurry, as usual. Despite the fact that she no longer had a single mistress - following Morgana's betrayal, coronation and coup – and she no longer had to attend the late Uther, there always seemed to be too much to do, for anyone who needed her help. Whether it was gathering laundry, or fetching ingredients from the market for the head cook, there were too many jobs for too few hands; they had lost so many in battle after battle that the city had been scarred by. Not even servants were spared in the conflicts. Many had been caught in the crossfire, whether as innocent bystanders, or willing participants, defending their homes and families. Many more had fled the city, having decided that travelling through bandit-infested forests, to move in with relatives and friends in faraway villages, was preferable to living in a city that seemed to get very little reprieve before the next strife was upon them.

Every morning, Gwen would report to the castle's head of staff for that day's assignments, and every night, she would go to bed; exhausted but happy. She still had a job - albeit not as Morgana's handmaiden or Uther's nurse - so she could still be useful, and have a roof over her head. Not only that, but she had a man who loved her and she loved him, even though they had to remain careful about how they displayed their affections. Okay, so their kisses in public may be fleeting pecks, and they daren't spend too much time together alone, for fear of tongues wagging...not that _she_ really cared anymore, but Arthur had only recently become King, and had many disapproving nobles to placate, before he could truly do as he pleased.

Yes, all in all, life was good. Well, all except for the fly in the ointment that was her best friend. Gwen couldn't prevent the tiny frown from creasing her forehead, at the thought of the raven-haired young man. He had become something like a little brother to everyone she cared about: Elyan, Gwaine, Percival and all the other knights, but especially Arthur; even though he was so loathe to admit to his closeness towards, what everyone else surreptitiously referred to as, his 'best friend'. She thought back for a moment to the events of that morning, when they had had their very early, impromptu meeting - in Gwaine's quarters, since he was still nursing a substantial hangover, and it was the one place where they could guarantee they wouldn't be disturbed by a certain young manservant.

_"I don't know," Gwaine said with a sigh, his hands cradling the steaming cup of tea he had hoped would clear his head, but which only seemed to make it seem fuzzier, and his thoughts harder to grasp than a greased trout in a bowl of jelly. "It just feels wrong, plotting against him like this."_

_"Oh come on," Elyan drawled. "Are you seriously telling me you haven't been watching him like a mother hen?"_

_Arthur snorted at this, and Gwaine looked like he was about to protest he was neither a mother hen nor Merlin a chick, but Elyan hadn't finished._

_"We all know the only reason Bedivere sliced you in training yesterday is because you couldn't keep your eyes off him."_

_Gwaine bristled at this, "I hope you're not suggesting..."_

_"I'm not suggesting anything, other than you care about Merlin as much as the rest of us, and you're as worried about him as we are. Hence why we're here, trying to decide what to do about him."_

_"But what can we do?" Gwen asked with a heavy sigh. "We can't force him to eat or sleep, believe me I've tried."_

_"You forced him to eat?" Arthur asked, incredulously, eyebrows raised at the image of Gwen tackling the much taller man, and shovelling food between his teeth._

_"No," said Gwen in frustration, "I said I tried. I had a word with Megan."_

_Arthur shuddered inwardly, as an image of the heavy-set and over-bearing head cook of Camelot's vast kitchen came to mind. Even Kings were entitled to be afraid of something, when suitably motivated, and a woman, armed with a rolling pin, with arms strong enough to give Percival a fair fight in a wrestling match, and a voice that could boom all the way from the armoury to the training field, was motivation enough!_

_Gwen continued, "She's always nagging Merlin to eat more, and bullying him with food, so I figured if anyone could scare him into doing it, she would."_

_"And?" Elyan asked, after she paused for too long._

_Gwen shook her head. "No good - she told me yesterday she's seen neither hide nor hair of him for the last week. I think he's purposely avoiding her."_

_"And I've tried getting him to catch up on his sleep, by giving him the night off," Arthur added, pleased to see it draw an affectionate smile on Gwen's soft lips, "But he still looks like he's been up all night the next morning. Gods, but what is he _doing_ with his spare time?"_

_"You mean, apart from catching up on all the chores you keep piling on him, Princess?" Gwaine sneered, only marginally joking._

_"He's my manservant, _Sir _Gwaine," Arthur growled back, "he's supposed to do whatever I tell him to...it's his job."_

_"Oh come off it, your highnessness, I'm not the first person to notice how hard you are on the kid, and I certainly won't be the last!" Gwaine had put his cup down, in order to bang the table with both fists, making Gwen jump with a gasp. He looked at her apologetically, but then returned to glaring at the King. "It's like you're constantly trying to punish him for something. Breathing, perhaps?"_

_"I am not!" Arthur snapped, folding his arms like an admonished child, and leaning back in his chair, to which Gwaine tutted. Arthur looked around at the others, hoping for some support, but they all looked away from his gaze, fidgeting uncomfortably in the ensuing silence. He looked back to Gwaine, who raised a smug eyebrow._

_"Well this is all very revealing," Arthur said eventually, taking back some control over the discussion, "But we're allowing ourselves to get diverted from the subject of our meeting: what are we going to do about Merlin?"_

_The room grew quiet again, until Gwen eventually spoke. "Well one thing's for sure: the subtle approach doesn't seem to be working. We'll have to try something more...direct." She caught the gaze of each of them in turn. "One of us will have to _make _him tell us what's wrong."_

_Arthur shook his head. "I don't know, Gwen. Merlin's not really the 'sharing all his secrets' type. And anyway, maybe he just needs to be left alone, to iron out his problems by himself...usually works for me." He shrugged._

_"Um, well, actually," Gwen began, twisting her hands together in her lap. "If anything's bothering you, Arthur, you generally take it out on a training dummy."_

_"Not always. Sometimes, I-"_

_"...pummel us on the training ground for several hours," Elyan suggested, a small, sly smile turning the corners of his mouth._

_"Yes, but I have to-"_

_"...more often than not, bash Merlin about with a sword..." Gwaine cut in._

_"...or a mace..." Elyan added, looking at Gwaine, who nodded in confirmation._

_"...or a goblet..." Gwen put in her contribution, with wry smile, to which her co-conspirators snickered._

_"...until he's a quivering wreck!" Gwaine finished._

_At this, Arthur raised a finger and drew in a breath, ready to utter an indignant protest, until he caught a glimpse of the knowing, smirking faces surrounding him, and swallowed the words back down. He looked round at them with a hint of contrite in his eyes, before looking down at the hands he had folded in his lap. "Sometimes, I don't," he said at last, in a mildly plaintive voice, that sounded not unlike a five-year-old that had been admonished for breaking a pot after horsing around. "Sometimes I go hunting."_

_"Huh, dragging Merlin with you," Gwaine said._

_"He doesn't mind," Arthur rebutted, folding his arms across his chest, as he leaned back in his chair._

_"Apart from all the moaning, you mean?" Elyan said, with a chuckle._

_"And the bickering, you two do," Gwen said, glancing sideways at Arthur._

_"Now hang on," Arthur said, raising his voice, his face hardening, "whose side are you on?"_

_"MERLIN'S!" they all shouted._

_"And so, are you," Gwen laid a gentle hand on his arm._

_Arthur gave her a sad smile, before lifting her hand from his arm to his lips, and placing a soft kiss on her fingers. Gwen returned the smile, holding his gaze, until Gwaine interrupted with a loud - and rather slurpy-sounding - bit of throat clearing. Arthur frowned at him, but didn't let Gwen's hand go, pulling it over to rest beneath his own on his knee, instead._

_"So, what you're all trying to say is that Merlin's moodiness is my fault, because I bully him; is that it?"_

_"Maybe," Gwaine said, at the same time as Gwen offered:_

_"No, of course not!"_

_The two looked at each other, and Gwaine rolled his eyes, before turning away, reluctantly conceding the point._

_"Okay, perhaps not entirely," he said, then quickly added, "but you could be a bit nicer to him."_

_"I am nice!" Arthur protested, eyebrows raised along with his voice._

_"One thing...name one 'nice' thing you've done for him recently," Gwaine said, raising a finger to emphasise his point._

_"..."_

_"Exactly!" the rogue knight said, folding his arms and legs as he leaned back in his chair; a triumphant grin slashing his face in half._

_"Uh...I was about to say that only yesterday, I helped him carry my armour back from training," Arthur said._

_"Oh, you mean that spare helmet?" Gwaine said._

_"That you made Merlin go all the way back to your room for," Elyan added._

_"...Because your usual one had a big dent in it," Gwaine continued._

_"...After you threw it at Merlin and missed," Elyan pointed out._

_"...Because he didn't have time to polish it," Gwaine said._

_"...As he was up all night polishing _all_ our boots."_

_"What are you two, some sort of double act?" Arthur burst in, flinging his hands in the air._

_"You made Merlin polish all the knights' boots?" Gwen turned to Arthur, shocked; pulling her hand back from under his._

_"It was his punishment," Arthur said, his voice rising nearly an octave._

_"For what?" Gwen asked with a small frown._

_"Bringing my breakfast late..."_

_"Arthur!" Gwen admonished._

_"...for the third morning in a row," he said, trying to justify himself._

_"No!" Gwaine said, slapping his palm to his own cheek, feigning shock. "How dare the _bad_ servant withhold vital nourishment from the underfed King! Why, you must have been wasting away in that time, sire."_

_Elyan put a hand over his mouth to stifle a snigger, and lowered his gaze to the floor, avoiding the King's glare just in time._

_"Might even have to start using the original holes on your be-"_

_"I think that's quite enough, Gwaine," Arthur said with a small growl. "You forget who you're speaking to."_

_"Erm, maybe we should get back to the topic of this conversation, anyway," Elyan suggested calmly._

_"Yes, well," Gwaine continued, with a flick of his hair, "We still have no idea why Merlin's not been the life of the party recently. For all we know, it could be something entirely simple and easily dealt with, like...oh I don't know...a girl or something?"_

_"A girl?" Arthur said with a disbelieving sneer._

_"Well, why not? He's a man, isn't he? And not a bad looking one - though not as gorgeous as me, of course!" A collection of eyes around the table rolled. "Maybe he just needs the advice of an expert?"_

_"Well that rules you out then, doesn't it," Elyan retorted with a smirk._

_Gwaine blatantly ignored him. "And I've got the perfect solution." All eyes turned to him with anticipation. "There's this new barmaid at the Frog and Duck," he indicated a voluptuous female form with his hands, to which Gwen pouted and sighed. "All he needs is a few drinks to relax him and-"_

_"Is that really your answer to everything, Gwaine: get drunk?" Elyan said exasperatedly._

_Gwaine looked blank. "Works for me."_

_"Figures!" Elyan said bluntly._

_"Meaning?" Gwaine rounded on his friend._

_"Okay, if you two could stop snapping at each other like a couple of old sows," Arthur cut in sarcastically, "We could ask an adult to handle this."_

_Gwaine looked like a sulky child. "But that idea was one of my best - I've been thinking about it for at least the last ten minutes."_

_"Wow, you managed to coax that inebriated brain of yours to do something other than find the next drink and ogle women for once?" came Elyan's sarcastic remark, to which Gwen giggled behind the hand she had raised to her mouth._

_"Ha ha, you can be so funny, when you're not sticking your head up the your own sanctimonious ar-"_

_"GWEN, suggestions?" Arthur bellowed through gritted teeth._

_Gwen frowned, twisting her mouth to one side, as she thought hard._

_"Maybe Gaius knows something we don't?" Elyan put in._

_Gwen shook her head vehemently, her curls bobbing around her shoulders. "I've already tried asking him. Gaius doesn't know what's wrong with him - not for want of trying - and is consequently as worried as we are. Apparently, we're not the only ones Merlin no longer wishes to confide in." Doleful eyes all round suddenly found the surface of the table riveting to behold._

_A bang of a fist to the table drew gasps from the three, who looked up to their King's tight-jawed face. "This is ridiculous!" Arthur said irritably. "I should be able to have a conversation with my own damn servant, if I want one! I'll talk to him tonight, and he WILL answer me this time." He banged his fist on the table again, to emphasise his point._

_Three faces stared back at him, with expressions ranging from anxiety to incredulity. "What, you think I can't talk to my own frie...manservant?"_

_"You were right the first time, Princess," Gwaine drawled with a half-smirk. "He's your _friend_ - just you remember that!" He waved a finger at Arthur's face._

_"And what's that supposed to mean?" Arthur said, angrily, rounding on the rakish knight._

_Gwen put a hand on his arm, "Arthur, please. Just promise me you'll be gentle with him, that's all?"_

_Arthur looked at her indignantly. "Aren't I always?" He ignored Gwaine's derisive snort._

Gwen sighed as she drew herself out of her reverie, and hefted the basket of laundry higher on her hip. She wondered, for what felt like the hundredth time that day, whether Arthur had had the opportunity to speak to Merlin yet - given how the dark-haired man was avoiding company as much as possible these days - and how he had got on. They had arranged to meet again in the morning, to discuss what he had - hopefully - found out, but tomorrow seemed like far too long to wait for his report. She hoped he'd at least had the patience to allow Merlin to let all his woes out, and finish speaking, rather than cutting him off with his usual brash, bravado silliness (typically involving calling Merlin a girl, punching him in the arm, or sending him off to do another chore, that could in all honesty wait until a more appropriate time, just so that he could avoid dealing with emotions that were higher than ground level). Not for the first time, Gwen cursed the luck that had bestowed Arthur with an absent mother and a father who had the emotional range of a hairbrush, and who had done his utmost to pass on his skills in the field to his only son.

The dark-haired maid increased her pace, and rounded the next corner, only to be sent flying by a flash of brown, blue and red. Gwen gasped as she dropped her basket, and fell to the floor. The man stumbled, but managed to prevent himself from falling in a heap as well, by dropping the bucket he held, and grabbing onto a conveniently-placed windowsill. After steadying himself, he reached down and hauled the girl to her feet, stuttering apologies. He looked up for the first time then, and on seeing who he had barged into, he blushed and lowered his eyes.

"Err sorry, Gwen," he mumbled, and immediately turned away, to begin picking up and roughly folding the laundry items that had escaped Gwen's basket.

"I..it's okay, Merlin, I..." Gwen looked at his face a little longer, and cut herself off. Were those tear tracks down his pinched cheeks? It had been a while since she had had a close look at him, and to say she was shocked at the sight of his moist, dark-ringed eyes was an understatement. And his skin seemed even paler than usual, as if all the colour had been drawn out through his eyes; leaving a vacant pool. Her heart clenched with sympathy for her friend's malaise. "M..Merlin, are you alright? Is there anything I ca-"

"I'm fine, Gwen," Merlin cut her off sharply, with a large sniff; still avoiding her gaze. "Just...um...coming down with a cold, is all." He looked down at the basket he still clutched in his arms, and shoved it to her chest. Her hands automatically came up to grasp it, while his fell limply back to his sides.

"You know you can always talk to me about anything that's bothering you," she said, cautiously, putting on her most empathetic smile, despite her growing concern. _How could his mood have sunk _this_ low?_

"Um, thanks," Merlin said, fidgeting from foot to foot, and pulling at the fraying cuffs of his sleeves. He raised his head and gave her the briefest of smiles, that barely twitched the corners of his mouth, but travelled no further. "Sorry, gotta go...um...things to do for the King." And with that, he was gone, like a hunted deer.

Gwen stared down the corridor after him, her mouth hanging open, until he rounded the next corner, and disappeared from view. That did it; she couldn't wait a minute longer to speak to Arthur about what had gone on in his little heart-to-heart with Merlin - if he had even had it - never mind until morning. It was obvious from Merlin's face that _something_ had happened - she wasn't buying that cold-coming-on lie for a second - and she had a horrible feeling, clenching at her stomach, that Arthur _had_ spoken to him, and things hadn't gone entirely to plan.

Looking down, she realised that in his haste to get away, Merlin had forgotten his bucket. With a heavy sigh, Gwen bent to pick it up, shifting the basket higher on her hip to balance herself. She hurried down the corridor towards Arthur's chambers.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:  
**

**You guys are all so awesome! I am totally gobsmacked at the number of follows, favourites and reviews you've all submitted already. Thank you again to anyone who signed in as a guest and sent me a review - your words of encouragement are the wind in my sails...  
**

**So, here we are at last at Merlin's POV. If you like angst, I hope you enjoy it...if you don't, no worries - life would be boring if we all liked the same thing :O)  
**

**Disclaimer: In my dreams I own Merlin, but since this isn't a dream, I don't...  
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**Chapter 3**

Why couldn't everyone just leave him alone? Couldn't they take a hint? It seemed like every five minutes someone was asking him whether he was alright or if there was anything they could do to help or why didn't he eat something or if he wanted to talk about it. NO! In fact, the _last_ thing he wanted to do was talk, there was nothing anyone could do, and he'd be a lot more bloody 'alright' if everyone would just LEAVE...HIM...ALONE!

Gods! He was so fed up with it all. He hated the secrets and lies. Even after all these years, when they should come as naturally to him as breathing or remembering his name. They still burned his mouth every time, like that first spoonful of hot stew, being shovelled into his mouth in an effort to appease his guardian, and get back to completing his long list of chores as quickly as possible. Above all, he hated the pain. The pain of just being alive, and having to live with himself. Every minute that he breathed added another lead weight to his soul. How could his friends possibly understand or help with what he was going through? How could they ever comprehend what it felt like to be him?

Did any of _them_ have magic, and therefore the constant threat of being burned at the stake hovering over their head? Had any of _them_ lost their childhood best friend, just to prevent his secret from getting out? How many of them had fallen in love and been planning to run away with a cursed druid girl, only to watch her die at the hands of his frie...master?

Were any of _them_ responsible for very nearly murdering their King's half-sister with poison, thereby turning her to evil, when he could have prevented it all from happening by sharing his secret with her (letting her know that she was not alone in her magical predicament)?

Had any of _them_ released a dragon; allowing him to cause so much death and destruction on the city that had become his beloved home? And were any of _them_ a feared and hated dragonlord, who only had the job because his father had died, due to his own dire lack of skills with a sword?

And now he had lost one of the only people who had truly known who and what he was. Someone he didn't have to lie to every day; someone who knew about his magic and wasn't scared of him and didn't admonish him for using it. Someone he could be himself with, and who never judged him for it. Then in the blink of an eye - or in this case, a veil - he was gone. And yet again, it was all _his_ fault. Maybe if he had not told Lancelot of his plans to stand in Arthur's place on the Isle of the Blessed, he would not be dead. Or if he had not wasted time trying to intimidate the Cailleach with his pathetically ineffective glare, and just got on with repairing the veil - as Lancelot had done - his friend would still be here; laughing and smiling and sharing the good times with his fellow knights, after a long training session with the King.

And then there was Arthur. His destiny; King due to his mistake, his meddling. If he had left things well alone - like Gaius had said - okay, King Uther would likely still be dead, but at least not by his hand. Morgana may have placed the amulet around her father's neck - or that snake, Agravaine, anyway - but _he_ had uttered the spell that had ended his life. If he hadn't tried to bend Arthur's will to accepting magic, Uther would have eventually slipped away peacefully in his sleep, and there may have still been some chance of influencing Arthur somehow to accept that not all magic was evil, that his father's teachings were so very one-sided and blinkered. But not now, no. Arthur's hatred for magic had increased ten-fold, and had a dreadful permanency about it that would never be budged out of place, no matter how many times he saw it used for good deeds. He would eventually turn into his father: paranoid and vengeful and unbending in his rule.

And it was all. His. Fault. However hard he tried to do the right thing, everything somehow went wrong. So what was the point in trying anymore? He would just end up hurting or even killing someone else he cared about, and would be no further down the line in achieving his destiny. And with all but two of his allies gone - both being much older than him, they could have no idea of how he felt - he was so alone, so lost.

It was just too much...too much for one soul to bear. He couldn't do it anymore. Couldn't carry on with the lies, the fear, the pain, the guilt, the grief, turning every living moment into a suffocating haze of hurt. He knew in the back of his mind - somewhere where a small voice that could barely be heard now - that his friends were only trying to help, but there was simply nothing they could do. Nothing _anyone_ could do. It was a quandary without solution and - destiny be damned - he had no will left to fight it anymore.

Merlin clenched his fists in a sudden wave of anger. What right did that bloody dragon have to dictate the course of his life to him? And who was to say that it had spoken the truth in the first place? How could he be sure the creature wasn't lying to him, to gain his trust for his own ends? Like achieving his freedom, from the prison he had been held in for twenty odd years by Uther the tyrant, perhaps. For all he knew, the only destiny he truly had was to live a nice, quiet life in a secluded village somewhere; with a wife and children, and where he could be free to be himself, with no other responsibility than to ensure they had a roof over their heads and food in their bellies. But instead, he had been told that the entire future of magic, the kingdom, and indeed Albion, depended on him. Who could possibly keep going against everything the world threw at them with _that_ hanging over their head? Especially when he was no nearer achieving the task than he had been when he'd first set foot in the city, and been bullied into following the will of that overgrown lizard.

No, enough was enough! He was through with dragons and Kings and magic and destiny. Through with prattish masters who treated him like dirt, no matter how many times he had saved their life! Through with pretending that any of it mattered, that the many things he had done had made any difference, other than to make things worse. It was time to admit defeat; to stop flogging the dead horse.

Merlin reached the familiar, worn, oak door of the head physician's chambers and turned the handle. The hinges squeaked with an aching predictability, as he slowly pushed the door open, and shuffled with heavy feet over the threshold. He glanced around the chaotic room, but could see no sign of his mentor.

"Gaius?" he called softly, as he took a couple more steps into the room. He didn't want to disturb the man if he was busy brewing potions, and was frankly unable to summon the energy to speak any louder anyway.

No answer.

He walked over to the table, where they usually took their meals together. For once, it wasn't completely cluttered with the odd collection of herbs waiting to be prepared, half-mixed potions, and partly-finished experiments. Now, its only occupants were a plate, of what was most likely his dinner (a piece of bread, some cold, cooked chicken - left over from the previous evening's meal, a piece of cheese and an apple), a couple of unlit candlesticks and, leaning against them, a piece of paper with his name on.

Merlin picked it up, and turned it over to read the note overleaf:

_Merlin_

_I've been called out to assist in a difficult labour in the lower town. Your dinner's on the table. Please go ahead and eat without me - I don't anticipate returning until very late tonight, or early tomorrow morning._

_Don't forget you promised to get me some Larks Foot and Marjoram in the morning, before you attend the King._

_See you tomorrow_

_Gaius_

The warlock gave a sad little smile. He couldn't have asked for more perfect timing, to fit in with his plan, if he'd tried. With deliberate care, he placed the note back on the table against the candlesticks...not really sure why, but in the mood for some uncustomary neatness. It seemed more fitting to leave things as little disturbed as possible; as if his movements from here onwards should leave only the smallest impact on the future.

Then he plodded on up the stairs to his small room. Standing on the threshold, he gazed round at the messy state of his abode. Not something he usually took any notice of, but maybe just this once... He began gathering and folding each item of clothing, before placing them in the small, worn chest below the window. As he owned so few things, it took very little time. The two books on human anatomy he had always promised Gaius he would read - but never quite got round to, given the vast amount of his time he had to spend each day on chores and keeping Arthur out of danger - he returned to the shelf in the main room. Coming back to his room, he was surprised at how much bigger and more clinical it looked without his clutter. But again, it just seemed right to ensure the mark he left was minimal.

The last thing left out was his travel pack, still thrown in a corner after his last hunting trip with Arthur. When was it? Two, no three weeks ago? It was difficult to recall, with much clarity, the events of the last month or so; the days seemed to merge one into the other. A continuous monotony of busy nothings, none of which were interesting enough to spark any lasting memories. Get up, nibble a bite of bread or porridge; as little as he could get away with to prevent Gaius from admonishing him. Then tidy, clean, train with, dress/undress, muck out, fetch and carry, for pretty much the rest of the day. He didn't usually stop for lunch - no time or appetite for food anyway - and only had a few mouthfuls of stew (if he could be bothered) for his supper, before getting a handful of hours of fitful, restless sleep. And then it started all over again.

His destiny still unfulfilled, his achievements - such as they were - still unacknowledged, his company or opinion infrequently sought, and his presence barely noticed. What point was there in trying anymore? To get more insults from the King or his knights? Or threats of a sojourn in the stocks or the dungeons or a one-way trip over the border, never to return (unless his head and shoulders were content with a permanent separation from each other)? Or, if he was really up on his luck, he'd get to spend another long night polishing the apparel of the entire army. Joy!

Only one thing remained then, and he would be ready. Crouching on the floor, he lifted the loose floorboard and reached into the secret space beneath. Pushing aside the book of spells, and nudging the Sidhe staff out the way, he scrabbled blindly for a couple of seconds, a slight feeling of panic making his heart beat faster, until his fingers managed to locate the small, hard object; wrapped in an old cleaning rag. Grasping it firmly, for fear it would somehow slip out of reach again, he replaced the floorboard with his other hand, and pushed himself back off the floor. He dropped the item into his coat pocket, and with only a cursory look around the four bare walls, he trudged back down the stairs, closing the door after him.

Merlin took a few minutes to drink in the sights of the chambers he had called home for the past four years, as if adding the last strokes of colour to the painting he held in his head, sealing it forever as the finished work of art it was. The racks of bottles and vials - some empty, some full, some labelled some not; the bunches of herbs hanging to dry; the shelves of books - some well cared for, others crumbling away with neglect; the scrolls of parchment and bottles of ink.

He breathed in the smells deeply, savouring even the mustiness of a room, badly in need of spring cleaning. He looked again to the note Gaius had left on the table. He had played with the idea of leaving a note of his own, on numerous occasions, once tonight's plan had begun to take shape in his mind, but yet again he rejected it. Like everything else in his life, what purpose would it serve? He had no words of wisdom to leave (that would not be treated with contempt), no finger of blame to point (at anyone but himself), and no possessions of any value to bequeath. No, better to leave things as quietly and modestly as he could.

And he did, closing the door gently in his wake, head bowed to this single, last task.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:  
**

**Thank you so much, everyone, for the fabulous reviews for the last chapter. I've been completely blown away by the responses to this fic so far. So happy you all like it. A big thank you also to those of you who reviewed as guests (to whom I couldn't reply) - your words of encouragement mean so much to me :O)  
**

**Okay, so a small reprieve from the angst in this chapter, but don't worry angst-fanatics...more is on the way soon *grins evilly*.  
**

**Disclaimer:**

**Merlin is lovely  
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**Merlin is good  
**

**Merlin's not mine  
**

**T'would be good if it could!  
**

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**Chapter 4**

"Arthur, you were supposed to be getting him to talk, not scaring him away!" Gwen was trying, and miserably failing, to keep the frustrated censure from her voice, as she and the King sped through the castle's long corridors.

"Don't you think I'm aware of that, Guinevere?" Arthur growled back angrily, then he came to a stop. Gwen bumped into him with a small yelp. "Sorry, I..I didn't mean that." He grasped her hand and brought it to his lips.

Gwen's mouth quirked into a little smile, though it only lingered for a few seconds. Once he had welcomed a concerned Gwen to join him in the dinner he had little or no appetite to enjoy, it had not taken Arthur long to recount the entire conversation he had had with Merlin; short as it was. Gwen, in turn, had described her brief encounter with the very distracted and rather upset-looking manservant in the corridor, and this had been enough to convince the King that they should immediately set out to find and confront the raven-haired young man together.

"Come on," Arthur said, "Merlin usually has his evening meal with Gaius around now. If anyone could persuade Merlin to stay and listen to what we have to say, then Gaius can, and I want to catch him before he does his rounds." Still clasping Gwen's hand, Arthur pulled her with him, as he began striding again towards their destination.

Reaching the heavy oak door, Arthur only hesitated a moment before knocking three times. He could vaguely hear the gentle echoes of the knocks resounding in the room beyond, but after waiting a few more seconds, there was no acknowledgement from within. Dropping Gwen's hand, he turned the handle slowly and followed the door's path inwards.

"Gaius?" he called, as he stepped into the room. Gwen was a step behind him, as he made his way further in, looking all around him for any sign of human activity, but finding the room eerily quiet. Even the fire in the hearth had died down to a pile of ash and a few burning embers. Arthur stopped in the middle of the room, his hands on his hips, and looked around him at the familiar, organised chaos.

The physician's chambers had always been something of a sanctuary to him, for as long as he could remember. This was the place he had come to to get comfort for his wounds - the mental as well as the physical ones. Numerous times - as a young lad obviously, because only children and girls cry, after all - he had found solace in the elderly man's embrace, when his father's had been denied him. Many a pleasant hour had been spent learning about astronomy, geography and history, with Gaius as the ever patient mentor - even friend - providing a break from his father's relentless training schedules, in his aim to turn his son into the warrior who would defend his kingdom, and only _then_ make him proud.

In his teenage years, his visits here had dwindled, until he only came when he needed his physical wounds patching up. These had been lonely times - his only friends noble sycophants and bootlickers. Until Merlin came to Camelot. In those few short years, his life had changed so significantly. He knew he wouldn't recognise that arrogant youth, who had challenged an unarmed but plucky peasant (he had only just met) to single combat, in a public place, just to impress his so-called friends. Now, he couldn't imagine how empty his life would be without Merlin's cheeky retorts, bare-faced honesty, and occasional pieces of oddly wise advice. Well, come to think of it, he could; the said young man having given him a taster over the last month. And he didn't like it...not one bit.

Giving his head a shake to clear it of its precious maudlin thoughts, Arthur headed over to the steps leading up to Merlin's bedroom.

"Merlin?" he called tentatively, as he knocked on the door. When no answer came, he opened it, and walked into the small, plain room. A frown blossomed on his forehead that continued to deepen as he looked around the empty chamber. He couldn't ever remember seeing it looking so neat and tidy. From the day that Merlin had moved in there, it had always been littered with a strange ensemble of items: from dirty socks to half-brewed potions to nearly completely melted candlesticks. Arthur's heart clenched at a sudden, horrified thought, and striding across to the windowsill, he wrenched the chest there open. But to his relief, it was not empty. And Merlin's travel bag, too, lay looking like a discarded animal carcass, in the corner by the chair. Well at least that was one thing - he hadn't left in a fit of pique. But then, where was the idiot?

"Arthur?" Gwen's voice drifted in from the main room. Giving the space one last, quick scan, in the hope of divulging any clues, Arthur stepped back through the door, to find Gwen waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs; a piece of paper in her hand.

"What is it?" he asked, but instead of a reply, Gwen simply placed the paper in his hand. Sitting heavily on the top step of the stairs, dreading what he might find out, Arthur read the short note. When he looked up at Gwen again, his face held a resigned frown. "So there's no use waiting around here to talk to Gaius, if he's not going to be back for hours."

Gwen tilted her head in the direction of the table at the side of the room, "Merlin hasn't eaten his dinner, again," she said. Arthur looked over at the table as well, and rolled his eyes at this latest evidence of his servant's lack of self-preservation. "Did you find anything in his room?" Gwen interrupted his thoughts.

"No," he replied. "But I've never seen it so...neat. It's almost as if..." His voice trailed away, and he pinched the bridge of his nose."

"As if, what?" Gwen asked, when Arthur left the sentence hanging for too long.

Arthur sighed heavily and looked up into her eyes. "I don't know, Gwen. But I have a really bad feeling."

Gwen felt her heart clench, and couldn't suppress the small shudder that shook her momentarily, as if a Dorocha had just collided with her soul.

Arthur got up, and absentmindedly dropped the note on the nearest table, before walking back towards the door.

"Where are you going?" Gwen asked, turning to follow him.

Arthur paused at the door, and turned to look back at her, "We're going to find Merlin," he said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

"But where?" Gwen couldn't keep the exasperation from her voice. "He could be anywhere."

"We'll split up. I'll check the taverns and get Gwaine and anyone else I can find to help. Then I'll check the battlements. You search the armoury, the kitchens and the laundry room - he might still be catching up on his chores. We'll meet up here in two hours. Maybe if we've had no luck, Gaius will be back by then, and he might have a better suggestion."

Gwen gripped his arm, and smiled affectionately at him. Reaching down to gently grip her chin, the King placed a soft, lingering kiss on her lips. And then he was out the door, and heading for the nearest exit to the courtyard. Gwen, only a step behind, turned in the opposite direction, aiming for the armoury, in the bowels of the castle.

* * *

"So essentially, what you're trying to say, Princess, is that you couldn't even have a simple chat with your best friend without screwing up, and now he's disappeared?"

Arthur swallowed hard and glared down at Gwaine for a moment, before he let out a relenting sigh and sank onto the bench opposite. The two empty tankards in front of Gwaine clinked noisily, as the King's fists thumped the table hard. "Yes," he admitted, through gritted teeth.

"So then, you'll concede that my idea was better?" Percival, beside the long-haired knight, smirked at this. The gentle giant had been filled in on the subject of his friends' early-morning meeting, following his return to the city with the rest of his patrol unit. He was only too happy to join his mates in drowning their concerns for their young servant friend, with a couple of swift ones down the Rising Sun.

Elyan, sitting next to the King, rolled his eyes and lifted his tankard to his lips to take a swig of mead, and thereby prevent himself from taking up his earlier argument with his friend. Gwaine was on his way to being comfortably soused anyway, and he was just...Gwaine.

"So what's the plan now?" the rogue knight asked, folding his hand round his nearly-empty third tankard, and lifting it to his lips.

"We find Merlin and confront him together," Arthur replied. _Safety in numbers_, he thought, _and they couldn't do any worse a job at worming the truth out of Merlin than I did!_ He raised an eyebrow. "That is, if you're not too wasted to stand and go for a walk."

"Hah!" Gwaine erupted, scornfully, "I was only just getting settled in...I'm not the lightweight Merlin is."

The other knights grinned at this, though with a slightly wistful twinkle to their eyes; reminded of the last time Merlin had gone drinking with Gwaine. He had managed to get himself in a fist fight, with two burly men - of questionable moral beliefs and hygiene practices - after only two tankards of mead. He had been late to work the next day, sporting a huge black eye, a slight limp, and 'the hangover from Hades', as he had called it. Arthur had been livid; Gaius, reprehensive; Gwen, concerned; Gwaine, mildly impressed; and the rest of his friends, highly amused. None had wasted the opportunity to ensure the experience was not brushed under the carpet and forgotten too quickly. Not that Merlin had particularly minded the ribbing they had given him. His ability to take his knocks, and join in with the laughter – even when he was the subject of it - was yet one more thing to add to the list of 'things they missed about old Merlin'. The Merlin who had not forgotten how to smile, or share a joke, or throw a witty retort at their good-hearted teasing.

Gwaine tossed his head back and drained the tankard, before slamming it back on the table and standing up; his eyes only slightly glazed, but his legs remarkably steady.

Arthur shook his head with a slight grin, and pushed himself to his feet, closely followed by Percival. "Great, you cover the lower town taverns, I'll go back to the castle and check the battlements."

"I'm liking this plan more and more," Gwaine's smile widened, as he rubbed his hands together.

Arthur rolled his eyes. "We're meeting Gwen back at Gaius' in an hour or so, so you'd better get on with it, _Sir_ Gwaine."

Gwaine made a face at the King behind his back, then turned to Elyan. He hadn't moved from the bench, and was staring into his drink, a pensive expression worrying his brow. "Coming, Elyan."

Elyan looked up and bit the inside of his cheek, "I'm starting to wonder if this is such a good idea." He frowned at Gwaine's look of exasperation. "If Merlin wants to be left alone, maybe we should."

"Fine, stay here," Gwaine flicked his hair behind him, and took a step towards the door, "I'm Merlin's best friend anyway. Everyone says so." Arthur and Percival shared an amused look, and followed Gwaine out into the street.

Percival and Gwaine were just discussing which tavern to try first - which mostly depended on which served the best mead, with the least boorish clientele, and the most voluptuous serving wenches, when the door to the tavern banged open again. Elyan stepped out, securing his sword to his belt. "Someone has to make sure you don't get waylaid on the mission, Gwaine," he said, in answer to Percival's raised eyebrow.

"I'll have you know..." Gwaine began, but was cut off by an impatient Arthur.

"Okay, let's just get a move on, shall we, we've got a lot of ground to cover."

"Right," Gwaine said, and turning Percival and Elyan with a push of their shoulders, he began walking in the opposite direction to the King. "See you in an hour, Princess," he called back over his shoulder with a sneer.

Arthur's only response was a small growl, as he began to jog back towards the castle, wondering for the umpteenth time whether it had been too much of a spur of the moment decision to knight the dipsomaniacal ruffian.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:  
**

**Thank you so much to everyone for your fantabulous reviews after the last chapter. I have been continually overwhelmed by their sheer number and generosity...yet again! Thank you also to those of you who sent me a review as a guest (and to whom I could not send a personal reply)...you guys are the warm, gooey custard on my apple pie :O)  
**

**Right then...chapter 5. Back to our lovely warlock. Hope it's okay.  
**

**Disclaimer: If I owned Merlin, there would be none of these rumours about season 5 being the last (it would go on for at least another 5 seasons, with the same cast), and the BBC wouldn't dare be so vague about the date that it will air in the UK. But since I don't, I'll have to suffer in ignorance like everyone else...  
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**Chapter 5**

The wind licked around the stones of the North Tower's battlements, eliciting a shiver from the black-haired warlock. He pulled his thin, worn jacket tighter around his bony limbs, and rolled his shoulders forwards; trying in vain to conserve his meagre body heat better. He knew it was no great mystery as to why he was feeling the cold more intensely now. Gaius had scolded him - too many times to bother remembering, now - on the follies of not eating enough, and then would harp on about how little notice the youth of today took of the elderly and wise. He used to try and follow his advice...on occasion...whenever it suited him.

Not that long ago, he did somehow find the time to squeeze in his three square meals, even if they were not at the conventional three points in the day when most other folk would take theirs. In all honesty, it was not entirely his fault that he had skipped the odd meal or two, here and there. But try explaining to Arthur that the reason his armour was still splattered with blood and sweat, or that his socks still smelled like a bucket of fish (that had been left outside for a week at the height of summer), or that he would have to find a big stick to defend his kingdom with (because his sword was as blunt as Gwaine's manners)...was because he had had the audacity to spend a few minutes of his personal time eating a meal, instead of tending to his ridiculously long list of chores. Heaven forbid if his majesty was less shiny, more smelly, or not quite so pointy for just one day, just so his slave of a manservant could eat enough to keep warm of an evening!

Well, that was in the beginning, anyway. Over the last couple of months, the one odd meal missed here or there had become more like a daily occurrence of two or more not eaten; and not every instance could be blamed on the burdens of being personal servant to a very busy King. He did try to force himself to eat a few mouthfuls - if for no other reason than to ensure that he didn't embarrass himself more than usual, or earn another couple of items on his to do list, as punishment for his low-energy clumsiness. And he really couldn't bear to face one more concerned look or anxious query over his well-being, from his mentor or friends, when they chanced to see him absentmindedly creating patterns in his food, instead of eating it. More often than not, he avoided meals with others. It was easy enough finding an excuse to forgo Gaius' company, when they both had such hectic schedules, and Merlin was being his usually tardy self. And when out on a patrol or hunting trip, there was always enough to do to keep Merlin away from the fireside at meal times; not that any of his so-called friends cared if he missed a meal - if anything, it was a source of entertainment.

He didn't even bother protesting any more. What was the point? He didn't feel hungry much, and eating would only prolong something he didn't want prolonged. When he did force himself to eat a bite or two, he felt so sick he wished he hadn't. The food seemed to curdle as soon as it hit his stomach, as if his very insides were spoiled meat; spreading their corruption to infect everything they touched. So what if he always felt tired, faint or dizzy? It was no different to the usual, and no-one took any notice if he dropped his master's sword during training, or tripped over tree roots once or twice more than normal. Arthur had even begun to scold him for it less than he used to; choosing to settle for a glare or exasperated eye-roll instead.

Yes, if anything, he had grown so 'invisible' over the last few months, it was a wonder any of his acquaintances still remembered his name, and didn't just refer to him as the 'oi you!' that strangers tended to use, when they needed to gain his attention. What was he, anyway? A nobody peasant from a village far away, in the middle of nowhere, who had no close friends, no-one who cared, no particular talents and no future. All the people he had once counted as kith or kin were either dead or oblivious. The ones still living had their own lives and their own problems, and he was becoming less a part of the former and more a part of the latter as each day passed.

Besides, he couldn't dare allow anyone to get too close to him, for fear that they would end up the same as anyone else he dared to become too friendly with; like Will, Freya, his father and Lancelot. Hell, even his relationship with Morgana had turned sour thanks to him allowing himself to believe they were becoming close friends; perhaps if he had stuck to the expected servant/noble interactions, she wouldn't have felt so embittered by his betrayal, and struck back so forcefully at everyone she had once cared for. Yes, when he thought about it, pretty much everything bad that had happened, since he'd arrived in Camelot, could be attributed in some way to his failings.

As the King so often reminded him, he was a terrible servant; his only successes in that field due more to the habit of the role than any particular skill he possessed. His week with George - however playfully meant - had only served to highlight just how useless he was at his job. While he had known his ability to make a helmet shine or a sword sharp was not perfect, he had thought it at least passable for his royal employer. The consultant servant had soon put paid to that delusion. And judging by the appreciative grins the King had rewarded George with - after seeing the fair on display at mealtimes, during that oh-so-long week - it was so obvious that Merlin's expertise in throwing together a meal (from whatever he could grab in the kitchen in the shortest amount of time) left a lot to be desired.

Even his role as Arthur's unofficial confidante appeared somewhat redundant in recent times. As a mere Prince, Arthur had frequently sought his advice or opinion on occasions, when trying to think through an issue on his own had resulted in too many hours of brain battering and too few hours of sleep. Though he had never outright shown his gratitude for his manservant's sage words, he had not dismissed them entirely, and had even employed them successfully in a number of instances. So even though all Merlin's acknowledgment for his contribution was a temporary lightening of his workload or - if he was really lucky - a curt nod of the head and half-formed smile, it would brighten his day enough to make even mucking out the stables a bearable task.

All this had changed on Arthur's promotion to Regent. Whereas Merlin had once entertained the delusion that his proven record as a knowledgeable and experienced man might ensure Arthur would at least _listen_ to his advice more frequently - now that Arthur's job entailed the making of ever-more important decisions - things hadn't quite turned out the way he's hoped. To begin with, the now-more-than-prince had been prepared to spare the odd few minutes here or there to listen to his servant's opinion; usually during one of his fast strides from meeting to training or ceremony. And even though Merlin's words were, more often than not, simply placed haphazardly in the ever-growing mental pile of things to do and mull over, when the Regent had the time or inclination to face it, he at least showed the classic signs of having heard his servant. A small frown or jaw clench or twitch of the lips. It was enough - though barely - for the manservant to feel he was not just a doormat to step on or a wall to fling things at.

But as the Regent's shoulders had bowed down further, under the weight of his expanding responsibilities, it soon became heart-crushingly clear that the succour his servant provided was not what he sought. And so he had gone elsewhere for his counsel. Whilst Merlin did not begrudge Arthur's need for the comfort only family could provide - his own first thoughts, in times of stress and pain, were for the warm, non-judgemental arms of his mother - he could not help but be swayed by his first impressions, upon meeting Agravaine. There was something in the way he smiled too easily and claimed modesty regarding his position too frequently - while simultaneously throwing in his face the validity of his relationship to Arthur, like a skeleton key to escape reprimand for his often imperious advice - that made Merlin question his candidness.

And so of course, as Arthur's secret protector, Merlin had made a point of keeping an eye on Uther's stand-in for Arthur's affections, which had enabled him to broaden his view of the Lord. And it was not a favourable one. What had started out as the odd, lingering, calculating stare at his nephew's back, had grown in frequency and menace. Then, of course, Merlin's paranoid worries had been proven infallible by the damnable evidence of Agravaine's actions. The fact that he sought knowledge of Emrys, had played a role in Uther's death and Gaius' kidnap - hell, had even made an appearance at Morgana's home - were treasonable enough offenses, and had turned Merlin's opinion forever against the two-faced, silver-tongued noble. But the back-pats, and thankful words and smiles were bestowed on the Uncle, not the servant...and Merlin had never felt less useful.

So that left his only talent - his magic - which, due to circumstances beyond his control, would have to remain forever hidden. And perhaps rightly so. What had magic ever done for him, other than get him in trouble, sent him away from his home, and put the lives of those he treasured in jeopardy? How many times had he only just managed to scrape his way out of problems by the skin of his teeth, thanks - so Gaius seemed to revel in reminding him - to his rash and misguided use of magic? Gaius had nearly been burned at the stake, because he was bored and wanted to sculpt smoke. Gwen had nearly been executed, because he had bought her father another year or two of life with his stupid poultice - even then, magic had been the cause of his eventual death; albeit not his own. Not to mention the fact that he had used his magic to perform regicide. Never mind that Agravaine had placed the fateful pendant around Uther's neck; he had been the one to deal the fatal blow. If he had left things alone, the jewellery would have lain there dormant and purposeless. Okay, the King would have died anyway, but his death would have been less sudden and unexpected, and who knows - perhaps Uther would have woken up, before he finally succumbed to the damage of the Gleeman's blade, and been able to impart some last minute wisdom to his son. Or at least given him the chance to bid him a proper farewell. But now, thanks to his servant's meddling, Arthur hated magic and was unlikely to ever change his point of view.

So much for his destiny! That was now an eternally unattainable goal. Indeed, who was to say that the destiny was his in the first place? Only some interfering, supercilious, over-grown lizard. What did bloody dragons know about destiny anyway? He'd only ever met one (Aithusa, being a baby, didn't count), so how was he to know the true infallibility of their knowledge? Perhaps Killgharrah's insights were no more reliable than Merlin's interpretation of the crystals in Taliesin's cave, and therefore by trying to decipher and manipulate the future, all he had done was brought it into being? Who was to say that by leaving things to fate, all the death and destruction that had been wrought over the years, since the dragon first invaded his mind, might not have come to pass? Even now, Morgana, Arthur and King Uther could have been sharing the unremarkable events of their day over a relaxed family meal, instead of being angry, stressed and dead...all thanks to magic. Heck, maybe even Ygraine would have still been alive, if they had not so foolishly turned to magic in their desperation for an heir? They may yet have been able to to beget Arthur. Perhaps they just needed to give it more time, or find a medicinal cure for whatever was preventing issue, instead of jumping down the slippery slope of magic's unpredictable ways and fickle rules?

Even his very name spelled disaster. If not for her fear of it, would Morgana have kidnapped and tortured Gaius? Had Mordred not called it out to him, that fateful day in the courtyard, would he still be alive now, somewhere; biding his time until the day he would fulfil HIS destiny and become Arthur's doom? Even the druids uttered it with a reverence akin to trepidation; as if in saying it, they were unsure whether he would welcome their benediction or smite them for their presumption. It's very sound was a warning and a challenge; a bearer of great power and promise of no mercy. It was a burden he had, for a long time now, found too great to bear; a fate he had been unwillingly bound to, and dragged along, kicking and screaming, until his life was no longer his to command. Every decision he made, every action he took, his so-called destiny was there. It forced his hand to do deeds he would never have dreamed of, and which still plagued him with nightmares; to the point where his sleep was no longer a release from his toils and woe, but merely a continuation of the battle his body fought each day.

And for what? The journey so far had been long and fraught with difficulty, with no end in sight. A never-ending list of chores to complete, with the promised reward an ever-thinning veil of lies he found harder and harder to swallow. Magic would never be accepted, and the dream that was Albion would never be realised; at least not by his hand. If Arthur was indeed the Once and Future King, he was either in it on his own - something he had recently shown a preference for anyway - or he had yet to discover the other side of his coin. But it wasn't Merlin, not now; maybe never.

Looking out across the cool stones, he savoured the sight of the city laid out below him, like a hungry man might devour a hunk of freshly-baked bread. It was close to sunset. The late summer sun struck the sides of buildings, accenting familiar details and throwing sharp, black shadows across the roofs and streets. Many of Camelot's citizens were still out, completing last minute tasks, before returning home for their evening meals or a night in the tavern.

Many an evening - when his chores would allow, and he needed somewhere undisturbed to think - he had stood here, looking down on his world; marvelling at the beauty of its rhythm. It had not been hard to pick the perfect spot for what had to be done, and tonight was as good a time as any. There was no point in deliberating about it further. Who was he trying to convince anyway, when his mind had been made up weeks ago?

Sighing heavily, Merlin sat down, his back against the sun-warmed, rough stones. Fumbling inside his pocket for a second, he brought out the rag-wrapped object, and placed it down on the ground beside him. His fingers drummed nervously on the paving stones beneath him, at once itching to grab the small bundle, and yet loathe to succumb to its silent call. With one large, courage-inducing inhalation, he took it up and unravelled the cloth, to reveal the small herbal knife. Discarding the rag carelessly, he cradled the knife in his hands.

It was a simple thing: a plain wooden handle - most likely rose wood - with no engravings or other embellishments. The blade was fairly short, but fine and deadly sharp. In the beginning, he had tried a small dagger - one Arthur had gifted him for his birthday, two years ago (for some reason, he had a thing about gifting people with sharp, pointy things...what did _that_ say about the way his mind worked?). But its blade had proven too heavy and therefore not precise; fine enough for stabbing an enemy when cornered, but not quite up to the task he had in mind. And besides, it didn't seem right somehow to sully that; a gift, turning its use to a sour one, like the one Arthur had gifted Morgana very nearly had.

It had been a spur of the moment decision, therefore, to steal this one from Gaius' collection. He had pondered over its efficiency at slicing through the soft green stalks of some Chervil Gaius had asked him to prepare, without overly bruising the stems, as it would reduce their potency in the potion, or salve, or whatever it was he was cutting it up for. Gaius had several such knives, and this one was not particularly new, though it had been kept keen. Soon, it had been secreted to the empty space beneath the loose floorboard in his room, beside the other things he didn't want found.

He thumbed the blade's edge unnecessarily - he was all too familiar with its bite. But hell, he'd needed to practice, right?. No good leaving anything to chance, flinching at the last second, and not doing it right. Better to become accustomed to the feel of its sharp tongue licking his skin; like a snake, tasting its prey. Here, there, everywhere - well, anywhere it couldn't be seen. This was HIS secret - just one more to add to the list that could never be shortened. But this one would be his last. And it made him feel better - just a little, and for a short time - until the pain faded and the darkness rose again; crying out to be suppressed with a jab and a stab and a lance of physical reproof, for having the audacity to breathe, to plot, to lie to his King, to his friends...

So he had covered every last scratch and slice; dressing those that threatened to whisper his secret, through his clothes, to prying eyes. He was good at keeping secrets. His harmless-seeming demeanour gave the impression to all he knew of his benevolence, his innocence, his trust-worthiness...oh how wrong they were! So easily duped, so gullible, so undeserving of his betrayal and uselessness.

He toyed with the idea of another 'practice', but then rejected it; better not to draw the process out too far, in case someone were to discover and stop him. That would never do...oh no no no no no! He had waited long enough for his release from the empty pit that was his life; an end to the bad decisions and even worse results he had brought on the world. Tonight, he would be duly punished for all the wrongs he had done, and relieved from the endless torment of losing everyone in his life that gave it any meaning. Every torturous memory, every bad deed flashed before his eyes, and he squeezed them shut, as if that would wipe them from existence.

Arther was right: magic was evil, and he was a monster. A monster who deserved no pity, no mercy, no life. Tears welled from his eyes and he stifled a sob; rubbing away at them angrily.

_Why are you crying? Think you deserve to feel sorry for yourself, do you? You ARE worthless. You ARE useless. No value in denying the truth any longer, or fighting a battle you can't win; leave that to others, infinitely more qualified than you. You're just a servant, and you're not even any good at that. You are NOTHING! Everyone knows it, and it's time you accept you will never be anything more._

Merlin squeezed the hilt of the knife in his palm, hard, and hugged his knees, rocking back and forwards; trying, with no success, to halt the sobs that wracked him now. He dug white fingers into ebony locks; pulling hard to bring enough pain to pierce through this ridiculous and undeserving self-pity.

With one last sniff, he scrubbed at his face with his free hand again. It was time to stop procrastinating. What would that achieve? The North Tower may be one of the least visited parts of the castle, but there was still the smallest chance of discovery, and that would not do, no! Not yet. Not until it was done, at least.

He slowly and methodically rolled up the sleeve of his tunic to expose his forearm. Beneath the material, the myriad scratches and cuts, crossed and recrossed each other, like a tattoo made by a drunken artist. Some were nearly healed, while some were fairly fresh, and still stung slightly when he bathed or dressed. The marks a display of both his pain and his relief - for each one in some strange way had brought him a little release from the overwhelming weight of the stone that dragged down his soul. At first they had helped, but like any addiction, their effect had dimmed over time. Now he needed something more...something that couldn't just be concealed, healed from and forgotten in a few short days. He held the small knife in place, breathing one deep, hitching breath, and then another and another; his mind spilling over the last few hours. Should he have written a note - to Gaius, or Gwen or his mother? Would they blame themselves without an explanation? He didn't need more guilt on his conscience.

He wondered briefly what Arthur would say or do. No doubt he'd be angry: he wouldn't get his breakfast in the morning, and being hungry always made him cross. And the King wouldn't have him to throw things at, to take his temper out on - he'd have to content himself with going into the woods, and killing something fluffy and guileless. Plus he'd have to find a new servant. _Well let's face it - any servant would be a vast improvement on me_. No-one else could be as clumsy, tardy, weak or hopeless as he was. In fact, this could be his last attempt to please his master: by providing him with an excuse to be rid of his worthless hide, without acquiring a guilty conscience. He certainly wasn't keeping him on because of any feelings of friendship - he had made it quite plain on any number of occasions that Merlin was nothing more than a servant to him. After all that they had been through together, after every half-hinted-at suggestion that the King might - just might - consider him a friend, it had been made crystal clear that had not, and never would be, the case; that things would never change for the better. Plus he'd been threatening to get rid of him for years - whether by exile or simply unemployment. One of these days, the threat would no longer be just that.

Gaius would be another matter. Yes, he'd be sad for a time, but he had enough on his plate as Court Physician to keep him occupied, and he'd soon get over it. At least he wouldn't have to waste any more time and effort worrying about his ward exposing his magic. And okay, he'd have to gather all his own herbs, run errands and clean his leech tank out himself (or more likely, get some other poor mug to do it), but he'd be no worse off than he had been before Merlin had come to darken his door. Perhaps now he'd get himself a proper apprentice; one who actually had an interest in training to be a physician, rather than doing it to fulfil an obligation for having a roof over his head and food in his belly.

Gwen, too, would be rid of the troublesome idiot, who did nothing but create more work for her and the rest of the staff, through his incompetence. And she would no longer be at risk of being blamed for his foolhardy acts of sorcery. Their friendship had been ailing in recent months anyway. Even someone as oblivious to the arts of the female flirt, as himself, could not fail to miss the pointed glances and semi-concealed hints Gwen had made, when she had wanted time alone with the King. When Arthur was not sucking up the lies of his traitorous Uncle, it was Gwen's thoughts he craved. On more than one occasion, it had been Gwen's lovingly-prepared and beautifully-presented meal that Arthur had consumed, in preference to his manservant's efforts; even going as far as to share the food with his beloved. An honour he had never bestowed on the man who had been by his side, almost every waking minute, for the entirety of their acquaintance (the rat stew most certainly did NOT count!). Maybe the King believed it approbation enough to allow his servant to eat the rejected meal himself; though on such occasions, Merlin either passed the offerings to Gaius - if he could be bothered to take it back to their chambers - or to the swine, if he could not.

And then Gwaine had told him - in a throwaway comment, whilst waiting for his turn to spar with the King at training - that Gwen had tried to stop Arthur from coming to find him, when he had been missing and injured in the Valley of the Fallen Kings. Though he had tried to justify the action to himself, as Gwen's understandable desire to protect her lover and King, Merlin could not completely silence the hurt little voice, at the back of his mind, that reminded him of the instance when he and Arthur had been hell-bent on rescuing Gwen from Hengist's clutches, all those years ago. Just one time amongst many when he had risked his life to save that of his first friend in Camelot.

No, all in all, they were going to be so much better off without him.

So what was he waiting for? _No more doubts now: you've thought about this for long enough. It is the only way out, you know that._

He could hardly see the glint of the blade against his white skin, through the river of self-hate flowing down his face. Sniffing loudly, he wiped the hot tears away on the fraying shoulders of his tunic. He took another shuddering breath, steadying himself, and looked up at the reddening sky; opening his mouth to whisper the one word left in his heart that personified comfort and love:

"Freya!"


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N:  
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**Evening all! Well, I'm still alive...no assassins sent to do away with me after I posted the last chapter, so I will take that as a good sign to carry on (and then duck and cover just in case).  
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**Thanks again to everyone for all the awesome reviews...still blown away by all your lovely comments and how many there have been - including all of you signed in as guests. You chaps and chapesses are all the best!  
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**Disclaimer: If I owned Merlin, I would also own an island somewhere, and I'd invite you all over, so we could live, breathe and eat Merlin. But since I don't, he (and anything else owned by Shine) is safe...  
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**Chapter 6**

The sound of his heavy breathing echoed tinnily off the slightly damp, grey walls of the tower, as Arthur slowed down from the two-steps-at-a-time jog he had started off with at the bottom, to a walk for the last flight of stairs. Surely he couldn't be _this_ unfit, with all the training he did every day? Well, okay, maybe not strictly speaking every day now: being King had its down as well as up sides. One being that he - more often than not - was too bogged down with paper work, and council meetings, and supplications to hear, and treaties to sign, and contests to judge, and knighthoods to bestow, and speeches to give. But he did _try_ and get out to train with his knights as often as he could fit it in.

And he was sure that the fact his belts were starting to feel a little on the snug side had a lot more to do with him getting older, and the laying down of more solid muscle - now he wasn't a scrawny young Prince anymore - and absolutely nothing whatsoever to do with having to attend so many banquets and feasts and so few patrols or practice bouts. And no, the fact that his recently-insular manservant was no longer teasing him about his healthy appetite and increasing waistline had no bearing on how out of puff he was right now. It _was_ a very tall tower - tall enough to keep most of the castle staff, nobles and guests from bothering to go to the lengths _he_ was to reach the top, just to find a silly, emotional maiden of a servant.

With no adornments on the walls or floor - this part of the castle was hardly ever used, so there was no reason to decorate it - his slowing footsteps seemed thunderous in volume. A small smile played with the corner of his mouth, as he thought about what Merlin would say round about now: _"Told you you were getting fat!"_ _Shut up _Mer_lin!_ A line decorated his brow: since when had he started having one-way conversations with an imaginary friend? _Friend? _Mer_lin? Okay, maybe_. But the ones they had in the flesh were more satisfying - if for no other reason than he got to throw things physically as well as verbally at his servant. And no, he wasn't going mad by talking to himself; just...reminiscent perhaps. It had been too long since he had heard this sort of banter from his serv...friend, so it was hardly his fault if he had to fill in the gaps!

_Merlin, you'd better be up here, because I've just about given up on you, you know that? You've had me running ragged round this whole bloody place, and all because you're a stubborn so and so. All you had to do was sit and talk to me - or anyone for that matter. But noooo, you think it's fun to play hide and seek and make me come after you! Who's the master and who the servant, exactly? You're supposed to be at my beck and call, not the other way around. Not that you ever come when you're called though - lazy idiot! I'd have you in the stocks for this...if I thought it would teach you a lesson. But I think we've established by now that being pelted with rotten food just doesn't have the desired effect anymore in the punishment-by-degradation department. Feathery hats don't work either, and I'm starting to suspect that you actually _like_ mucking out the stables, just so you have an excuse to fall asleep in the straw - smell or not!_

_No, I'll have to think of something more...imaginative. Just have to find you first._

Arthur paused at the top of the staircase, leaning on the wall to catch his breath. He could feel a thin rivulet of sweat tickle its way down his back, to be soaked up by the waistband of his trousers. At least this was the final destination of a very long trek. He had spent the last three quarters of an hour ascending and descending towers, running along corridors and walkways that connected the various parts of the castle's battlements, and was now feeling utterly exhausted. He made a mental note to use this route next time one of his knights needed kicking back in line. He had a funny feeling Gwaine would be the first one to test it out. And in the not too distant future, especially if he had been in any way diverted over the last hour, and had _not_ gotten round to searching EVERY tavern in the lower town, as instructed.

Smirking with evil anticipation, the King opened the dark wooden door, cringing as the little-used hinges squeaked noisily. If Merlin _was_ up here, he must surely have heard that! _If_ he was up here. Arthur seriously doubted that his servant would have bothered to walk up all those steps, just to avoid a conversation. In fact, he wasn't really sure what had possessed him to come here himself. Some sort of intuition, maybe? Or was it just the odd tingling sensation that had passed through his veins, when he had stood at the bottom of the tower; wondering where else he hadn't tried to find his wayward servant. Or maybe it was simply that he would feel pretty bloody foolish if he reported back to the others that he couldn't find Merlin anywhere, and then the idiot waltzed out of the one place he _hadn't_ looked, with one of those annoying smug grins on his face, saying, "Hah! I win!". Chance would be a fine thing, but at least he was making good use of the last few minutes before he was due back at Gaius' chambers.

A blast of air ruffled his hair, and Arthur stood for a moment, enjoying its cooling effect on his hot face. This breeze would have been most welcome earlier, when he and the knights had been sweating away in the training field, but as was common at this time of year, the only relief from the heat of the day came when the sun had just about passed below the horizon, when most people had retired indoors for the evening. Already, the blood-red swirls in the sky were being chased away by the descending indigo darkness, making it hard to see much on the heavily shadowed crags of Camelot's battlements. The walkway at the top of the North tower was not as large as some of the others, but it had a good view of the city below. Arthur rested his crossed forearms on the edge of the wall and leaned forwards, so as to see the courtyard below. There was the slightest possibility he might spot the object of his search slipping back into the building, after waking up in the stables, yet again, and realising he was late to deliver his master's dinner? But the courtyard was empty, except for a couple of guards on their evening patrol, and one or two other non-Merlin servants, hurrying on whatever errands servants hurried on at this time of the night. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled the lateness of the day.

Arthur sighed and stood straight again, glancing round the area in front of him. All appeared quiet and empty; another fruitless end to a futile mission. _Oh well, better get back and see how the others got on. _ _One of them must have had more luck than me - there are only so many places a man can hide, even in a city the size of Camelot._ He was just turning round to head through the door when something in the corner of his eye made him pause; his fingertips already brushing the smooth wood. Arthur squinted and turned back. He took a step towards the wall that circled the inner part of the tower. _There, where the wall curved round, what was that? Is it...a boot?_ He took another step. The closer he got, the more familiar the footwear looked.

"Merlin?" he called tentatively.

No answer. Another step.

That definitely looked like Merlin's boot: brown, wrinkled leather, and worn, unpolished buckles. _If only he put as much effort into his own appearance as he does in mine!_ Not that he would ever tell him that - _have to keep him on his toes, after all - but still, he's the King's personal servant, and he really should try and _look_ the part!_ But what would his boot be doing up there, unless...it was attached to his foot?

"Merlin?" he called, a little louder and firmer. _Surely that would wake him up, if he's fallen asleep up here?_ Though why he would choose to do that there rather than in his own room, or..well, anywhere less 'stony', Arthur couldn't fathom.

Still no reply. Another cautious step forwards.

Something on the ground flashed: a glint of silver. _There, at the side of the boot, is that...a knife?_ Arthur froze, his heart skipping a beat, as a spark of sixth sense flashed through him. He leaned forwards and to one side, to get a better view. A brown-trousered leg stretched on its side out of the boot, and draped over it, fingers dangling towards the knife - as if trying to either grasp it or cast it away - was a slack, pale hand.

Arthur's breath hitched in his suddenly-dry throat, and his stomach felt like it was trying to digest a shard of glass.

"Oh Gods!" He rushed to cover the last few steps round the corner, wanting desperately to see who was there, and at the same time dreading the discovery he was about to make. He came to a stop and gasped.

Merlin lay - or rather sprawled - on his side, his back against the inner wall, as if at some point it had supported his weight, but now no longer could. His head rested on his left shoulder; eyes shut, face deathly pale, and lips slightly parted.

The King followed the line of Merlin's left arm, as it curved from where his head leaned, and came to rest in...

"Oh no! No, no, no, no, NO!" He felt the blood drain from his face and shook his head in denial at the crimson pool that cradled the still man's forearm and hand. An alarmingly _large_ crimson pool, that had not ceased expanding.

The blond-haired man crashed to his knees; his shaking legs all but failing to support his weight. His limbs suddenly felt so heavy and his muscles weak. His pulse quickened as he leaned over the prone white form below him, to grasp the leaking wrist, and lift it clear of the sticky, red puddle; red streaks tracing a hotchpotch of lines on parchment-coloured skin. His thumb pressed down hard on the ugly, dark crack that shouldn't have been there. It did little to stop the steady stream of shocking redness that continued to streak down the limp arm; soaking into the already saturated blue sleeve, and dripping to join its brethren on the hard stone floor, with a horrendous plop, plop, plopping sound.

"Merlin," the King forced a whisper around the lump that threatened to totally block his throat, swallowing convulsively, "what have you done?"

Silence.

His heart lurched further still in his chest with dread, and he felt his whole body cool down another degree or two.

"No, you're not...you can't be..." _I won't let you!_ his mind screamed. He pushed the bolus of bile back down into his clenching stomach, then still grasping the bleeding wrist as tightly as he could, he leaned his head down until his ear touched the frail chest. After a moment or two, Arthur breathed a small sigh of relief: Merlin was still breathing, though the breaths were unhealthily shallow. He grasped for the uncut wrist and fumbled with trembling hands for a pulse. It took a few heart-wrenching seconds to find, but it was there: weak yet steady. Arthur bowed his head, allowing himself to catch his breath, trying to force his own heart to slow to a less hectic pace. He hadn't got there too late. But there was so much blood on the floor; too much blood. How much could a man of Merlin's small stature and poor health lose, before his heart ceased to beat?

He took in a lungful of air, to yell for the guards to come and help him - to carry his friend or get the physician or...something, damn it! - but then remembered where he was, and the air whistled back out through his teeth. No-one would hear his calls from there, and no patrol was likely to bother coming _that_ far up the tower; if at all. No, the only one who would be able to do anything was him...and Merlin needed Gaius immediately.

_Shit! Gaius wasn't there. Shit shit SHIT! Why did that bloody woman have to go into bloody labour tonight, of all nights? Couldn't the babe have waited another 24 hours? Or been less troublesome in its entry to the world, so the midwife could have handled it herself? Why, for that matter, did Merlin have to choose tonight to do this, and find the remotest part of the castle to do it...and be so bloody accurate with the blade as to hit the artery? Arrrghhh! Why was everyone conspiring against him? Bloody traitors, the lot of them!_

He knew, somewhere, in a distant and easily barricaded part of his brain, that he was being irrational and thoughtless, but right now, he didn't have the wherewithal to care. His friend was dying, and he had a right to take his anger out on the world. He was the King, for Gods' sake, and could say or think what he fucking well pleased! Anything to prevent the full-blown maelstrom of panic from bursting out of his very bones at the sight of...

He closed his eyes, hoping that perhaps this was all just a bad dream. When he woke up, he would be in his cosy bed. Merlin would be bustling around the room - making a racket as he allowed the breakfast tray to clatter onto the tabletop, while he chattered inanely - and Arthur would most certainly not be at the top of the bloody tallest tower, with no physician available and a man spilling his lifeblood out on the stones beneath his feet. The King's eyelids hesitantly lifted, and his heart sank back down to his stomach.

No more time to waste on wishful thinking. He grabbed the crimson-splattered knife from the ground and tore a long strip of cloth from the hem of his shirt, which he wrapped as tightly as he could around the gaping, red slash. Merlin didn't react at all, as he tied a knot in the strip of cloth: _not a good sign. That should have hurt._ Arthur stared down at the innocent-looking knife in his hand, and the patches of blood that had stained his skin: Merlin's blood. He had a strong impulse to throw the cursed thing as far as he could over the castle wall, as if it was some evil-imbued artifact, created by a Gods-forsaken sorcerer, and had instigated this whole nightmare itself. But he gritted his teeth and stopped himself. That would be churlish and dangerous - no telling where it might land. And besides, he needed undeniable evidence, if he was to confront his manservant later.

_If? If?! NO! Don't think like that!_ He tucked the knife into his own boot, in the same sheath as the one he always carried there.

"Merlin, can you hear me?" Arthur called, shaking the man's shoulder firmly. Merlin's head rolled with the momentum on the stone floor, but his dark, sunken eyes remained closed, and no sound came from his grey lips. "You can be so difficult sometimes, Merlin!" Arthur huffed in exasperation, though his voice cracked on his friend's name. Then placing one arm under the man's knees, and the other under his shoulders, the King hefted his friend up on unsteady legs. His stomach gave another horrified twist. "Gods, Merlin, when did you last eat? A five-year-old has more meat on it than you!" Merlin's head was flung back over his left bicep, his mouth gaping a little further open, but there was no response to the barbed comment.

Somehow, Arthur managed to get the door to the stairs open, and he began to make his way down, leaning against the cold stone wall whenever he came close to stumbling. All the while, trying to provoke a response from the silent form in his arms.


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N:  
**

**Okay, I've agonised over this chapter long enough now. Time to light the fuse, stand well back, and not approach until the fireworks have finished.  
**

**Thank you again to all those of you who have followed, favourited and reviewed...you lovely people are the jam in my jammy dodger!  
**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin...but if I did, what would you like me to put in season 5? Getting so excited now I'm counting the days, hours, minutes, seconds...  
**

* * *

**Chapter 7**

Gwen hugged her arms to herself, as she paced back and forth in the Court Physician's main room. It was only a small path - woven between the over-laden workbenches, stools, brooms, buckets and candle stands - but it sufficed to vent some of the pent up frustration she was feeling. Gwen was good at waiting. She had had many years of practice. Too many years. Waiting for her father to come home from the forge, when he was busy finishing a large and very urgent consignment of swords for some nobleman, who had paid him only half the money in advance, and threatened to allow his men to wreak havoc on his family - including his pretty young daughter - if he did not finish in the agreed time. Waiting for Prince Arthur to come and rescue her, when she had been left behind with an angry Kendrick and forced to impersonate her mistress to ensure her survival. Waiting for that same mistress - and once friend - to be returned to her, when the whole city had woken from a magic-induced sleep to find her gone; kidnapped. A whole year she had waited on that occasion, only to be reunited with a very different King's ward, who turned out to definitely no longer be her friend.

Yes, waiting could bring its rewards, to those patient enough to see it through without giving into their natural urge to end the intermission prematurely. But then sometimes, the end result of the waiting was not such a pleasant surprise. Sometimes, all waiting did was give the mind time to imagine too many alarming ends to the scenario, only for it to be replaced by an even more horrendous reality. And now she was waiting again.

For the King and his knights to complete their part of the search, and - hopefully - report back their success.

For her best friend to reappear, probably tired and hungry, and _this_ time more willing to allow her to be the ear to his woes (and if not, she would damn well strangle it out of the infuriating idiot..._Gods, I'm starting to sound like Arthur!_).

For Gaius, who was still not back either, though that did not concern her too much; there was no telling how long the woman's labour - that he had mentioned in his note to Merlin - would take. But it would have made the waiting easier - and more productive - if she could have spent the time talking to the physician about his ward, and what they were going to do to release him from his doldrums.

Merlin had not been in any of the usual places he frequented, in his duties to the King, and none of the other members of staff she had spoken to - who cared for Merlin well enough to make a note of his comings and goings - had seen any sign of him that evening. Megan, the head cook, had shown concern that neither the King nor his manservant had eaten their evening meals, and made Gwen promise to send word to her the minute they returned, so that she would send over a late supper for them. An affectionate smile tugged at the corner of Gwen's mouth, at the thought of how deservedly loved the two men were, even if they were blissfully unaware of it. And it was nice, in a weird sort of way, to share the burden of fretting over the pair with someone else, who didn't just accept that this was the way they were and no amount of trying on their part could change it.

The sound of footsteps in the corridor outside, followed by a sharp knock at the door, made Gwen whirl round with a gasp.

"Enter," she said, her eyes hungrily drawn to the door seam. The handle turned and in walked...

"Gwaine!" she bit her lip in an effort to hide her disappointment.

"The very same, oh Queen of my heart," he gave her his sideways grin, with a flick of his long hair, and she was momentarily reminded of their first encounter; over a flower and a coquettish exchange of words in the marketplace. It was almost enough to make her smile.

He looked around the room before returning his gaze to her worried pout. "The Princess not back yet?"

Gwen shook her head and exhaled slowly. At the sight of her strained frown, Gwaine forewent his customary witty retort; simply crossing his arms and perching on the corner of the table that still held Merlin's uneaten supper.

Gwen resumed her pacing. A tense few minutes later, there was another knock at the door.

"Come in," Gwen and Gwaine said in unison, both looking in the direction of the sound. Elyan and Percival walked in, their footsteps heavy. At the sight of a distinctly Merlin-free room and Gwaine's questioning look, they shook their heads; faces grim.

Gwen released the lungful of air she had been holding and tutted, "Where _are_ they?" she said, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Must be a novel sensation for you, Gwaine," Elyan said with a smirk, "to still be upright by this time of night."

Gwaine gave a sly grin in return, "I'll have you know I've been all the way down to the Waystone Inn and back, and not touched a drop." Elyan and Percival both raised disbelieving eyebrows at this, and Gwaine nodded, tongue firmly pressed in his cheek with his overblown sense of achievement. "_And _they were doing half-price drinks at the Golden Goose, so how's that for restraint!" The other two knights merely rolled their eyes and passed a look of exasperated mirth between each other before looking away again.

Silence descended back over the room. Percival pulled out a stool from the bench nearest the door and sat down. Elyan crossed his arms and looked anxiously across to Merlin's room, as if by sheer will he could make his friend appear from it, dark hair dishevelled, and his signature cheeky grin lifting all their spirits. How many times had one or all of them been stressing over a supposedly missing Merlin, only to find that he'd gone out on a herb-gathering mission for Gaius, or fallen asleep somewhere Arthur would never think to go looking, or twisted his ankle tripping over his own feet? The man had a penchant for finding himself in some sort of self-induced trouble, yet he had an army of friends willing to go out on a limb for him at a moment's notice, just for the pleasure of going to sleep that night, reassured that he was okay.

Their collective thoughts were interrupted all of a sudden by the approaching yells of Gaius' name. Percival and Gwaine stood up; all eyes trained to the door, as it received a loud thud - in all likelihood from a foot - and flew open.

Gwen's hand went to her mouth, with a sharp intake of breath, as she took in the sight of the latest visitor to the Court Physician's chambers. An out-of-breath Arthur staggered in, messy blond hair plastered to his face with sweat. It was the sight of what he carried, however, that filled the faces of all present with horror. Merlin looked like a ragdoll in his master's arms; his right arm dangled loosely, his head hung back; mouth slightly agape. His skin was so white it was almost translucent, apart from the dark circles around his sleep-deprived eyes. His hollowed cheeks gave him the appearance of a badly-chiselled sculpture, and his lips were tinged a shade of grey that was only one tone short of blue.

"What happened?" Gwaine demanded, his eyes wide.

The King ignored the question and frantically looked about. "Where's Gaius?" he said, his voice ragged from exertion and stress.

"He's still not back," Gwen squeaked from behind her fingers, her eyes still burning holes in the pale form of her friend in her lover's arms. Arthur groaned, and then walked over and gently relieved himself of his burden onto the patient's bed by the unlit fire. It was as he stood up straight again that Gwen's breath hitched sharply.

"Arthur, are you hurt?"

The King's gaze dropped to his own chest, and he noticed the large red stain for the first time. He swallowed hard and looked back down at his wan friend lying before him. "No, it's Merlin," he said in a strained voice, "He..." he swallowed again but couldn't complete his sentence. Gwen rushed forwards to kneel by the side of the bed. She immediately saw what Arthur could not speak of. The makeshift bandage that Arthur had wrapped round Merlin's left wrist was saturated with blood, and it had spread to the tunic on which it rested.

"Oh Gods, he hasn't?" Gwaine breathed, his voice rough with unaccustomed fear. Arthur glanced up to take in the sight of his knights, who had silently surrounded them, shock stealing their breath and voice His pained grimace was answer enough.

Gwen reached a shaking hand to sweep the hair - seemingly darker than normal, in contrast to the alabaster skin - from her friend's eyes. Her touch drew no response. "Merlin, can you hear me?" she called quietly, a distinct wobble in her voice . "It's Gwen. Please, open your eyes." There was no answering flutter of dark lashes.

Arthur reached past her to grasp Merlin's right wrist. The tension that descended was thick enough to butter and serve with a bowl of stew, as they all awaited his verdict.

"Is he -" Elyan began.

"He's alive," the King interrupted gruffly. "But his pulse is weak."

"He's still bleeding," Gwen observed, as she noticed the red stain on Merlin's tunic had grown ever so slightly since she first saw it. "We need to elevate the limb to slow the blood flow." She grabbed the bandaged forearm, and lifted it up. The sight of Merlin's limp, delicate fingers as they hung from her hand made her stomach clench horribly.

"Here, let me." Gwaine's voice was gravelly with withheld emotion, as he knelt down on the other side of the bed, and took Merlin's hand from her gently.

"We should change the bandage," Gwen said, standing up. She moved over to one of the work benches, and began rummaging around in its drawers. Slamming it shut again, moments later, she hurried back over with a wad of linen strips and knelt down beside the cot. Gwaine moved his hand slightly, to allow her access to the blood soaked rag that Arthur had applied. Tenderly, Gwen unwound it, wincing when she got down to the bare flesh, and saw the damage Merlin had wrought. Gwaine's jaw tensed, and he looked away, his complexion visibly whitening. Gwen too hastily forced back her last meal, as it threatened to pay a visit to the outside world again, and began to wrap one of the fresh, clean strips over the wound, as tightly as possible. She glanced up at Merlin's face, expecting to see some sort of response when she tied the ends of the new bandage into a knot, but he remained worryingly still.

"Come on, mate," Gwaine sighed, staring into the wan face of his friend, as if by will alone he could command his eyelids to rise, "you've gotta see this...it's not every day Percival comes to training in a bright pink dress and barbette." Behind him, Percival snorted half-heartedly; still too shocked by Merlin's handiwork to put together a retort.

Arthur, who had moved back a couple of steps, to allow Gwen to tend to their friend, raked shaking hands through his already-mussed hair. He dug his fingernails into his scalp, and with a growling yell, he kicked a nearby small table, hard enough to knock the three books and sheaf of parchment to the dusty floor. All eyes turned to observe him in empathy as he yelled, "Where the _hell_ is Gaius?!"

Gwen, her task complete, turned on the stool to face the King, her eyes watery and teeth attacking her lip. "Arthur-" she began, but he took a step forwards and interrupted her; not in the mood for one of her placatory speeches.

"Gwen," he said urgently, his arms crossed; hands clenching and unclenching on his biceps without pause, "do you have any idea where Gaius might be; whose birth he's assisting with?"

Gwen shook her head, biting the inside of her cheek.

"Try the tavern..." Gwaine's abrupt suggestion received a number of groans and head shakes. "What?" he asked innocently, and with a slightly annoyed look at his friends' derision. "Why else do you think they were doing half-price drinks at the Golden Goose? That innkeeper's stingy as hell any other day of the year, but the night his wife goes into labour..."

Arthur clapped his hand on the for-once-sober knight's shoulder, with a grim smile of gratitude for his foresightedness, and then looked over his shoulder at the other two knights hovering behind him; distress still freezing them to the spot. "Elyan, go with Gwen. Find him; quick as you can."

Elyan bowed slightly, "Sire," he said, and then brother and sister hurried over to the door, glad for something to do to help, rather than frustratedly hanging around, waiting for the Physician's return.

Gwen paused on the threshold and looked back at Arthur, her eyes haunted. "Gaius will need some fresh water, Sire," she said, her throat tight with unshed tears.

"I'll go," Percival volunteered, and hastened after her. The door shut much more quietly than it had been opened.

* * *

Arthur pulled a stool over to the side of the patient's cot, and slumped onto it with a loud exhalation of breath. He placed his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands; rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his palms.

"See, I told you we should have taken him for a drink or three," Gwaine muttered, looking up through his curtain of hair at the King.

Arthur grunted then sat up, his eyes crawling, unbidden, back to his servant's face; hands squeezing tightly enough to whiten his knuckles. His fist came crashing down on the edge of the cot. "Why?" the King spat out from clenched teeth. "Why did you do this, Merlin? Why?" He raised his hands again, fingers curling inwards and towards his servant, as if he was about to grasp the front of the man's tunic and shake an answer out of him. He bit his lip and slammed his fists down onto his knees again instead. "All you had to do was talk to me; tell me what was bothering you. I just...how could things have gotten this bad? Bad enough for you to..." He shook his head and looked down at his feet, desperate to hold back the burning flood that threatened to burst the dams that were his tear ducts, while in the presence of one of his men. Especially Gwaine. He would never hear the end of it if Gwaine saw him cry over Merlin.

_No man is worth your tears? Damn it, must that always be so? No exceptions? Not even for his...friend?_ His friend who lay there, closer to death than he had ever seen him before - not even when he had drunk the poisoned wine in his stead. In a way, he was glad that his father had had him locked in the dungeon for so long on that occasion. Much as it had frustrated him to not be able to see his servant - not that there would have been anything further he could do anyway, once the flower was out of his hands - at least he hadn't had to be witness to the near-corpse that Gaius and Gwen had tended to. From the maid's later description - once he's been released from his cell - Merlin had looked probably not that dissimilar to the way he looked now. Only that time - according to Gwen - he had actually stopped breathing and his heart ceased to beat for a moment. Arthur shuddered at the thought, and willed with all his might for the image in his mind to be gone; and never made reality. Thankfully, by the time he had seen Merlin again that time, the boy - though still a little shaky and grey around the gills - was far closer to being his normal, perky self than the picture the maid had painted.

Gwaine, still holding Merlin's left wrist up, leaned over the prone body, to touch the King's shoulder. "Hey, Princess. None of us saw this coming," he said, in a surprisingly sympathetic voice.

Arthur jumped at the unexpected touch, and then gave an apologetic half-smile to the bewhiskered knight, though it soon melted off his face again, like spent candle wax. He shook his head, grimacing. "I _should_ have. He's my..." he couldn't continue past the lump in his throat and clenched his jaw instead, a muscle in his cheek twitching.

"Friend?" Gwaine offered. "Mine too. But that doesn't mean I know about everything that goes on in that weird head of his." He held Arthur's gaze for a moment, before allowing it to slide over to the placid-seeming face on the cot between them, and the smirk drifted into a scowl. "Don't think I haven't tried. It takes more than a couple of tankards at the tavern to loosen that man's tongue. More than likely, he'll just throw it all up before he's had enough to spill the beans on what's on his mind!"

Arthur gave a snort of laughter at this. His manservant's legendary inability to hold his drink was the subject of much teasing on his part. And he was not usually alone in his jibes. It was not an uncommon occurrence for Merlin to be the but of most of the knights' jokes, when out on a hunting trip or on patrol, to the point that it had become routine. Set up camp, gather firewood, eat meal, argue about the watch schedule, ridicule Merlin, go to sleep. So it would be the next night and the next and highly likely the next. But then Merlin always seemed to take it in his stride, and barely even reacted with anything other than a patient smile or feigned ignorance. The same with his own derogatory comments and odd cuffs around the ear here and there.

_Well, _he_ knew they were all in jest, didn't he? Didn't he? He usually gives back as good as he gets. He used to, anyway. So what has changed? Why are we here, now, looking at the results of what happens when Merlin and his sense of humour part company? Where did it all go wrong?_

Arthur was interrupted from his depressing reverie by the reappearance of Percival, the newly-filled bucket swinging from his hand. He closed the door carefully behind him, and nodded in Arthur's direction. "Sire," he acknowledged simply, before walking over to the fire and tipping the water into the empty cauldron hanging there. He looked around the fireplace briefly for Gaius' flint and steel before spotting it, sitting amongst a plethora of empty bottles and vials on the mantelpiece. Within a few minutes, he had a fire going to heat the water, ready for the physician's - preferably - imminent return. Task completed, he came over to stand behind Gwaine, and gaze at the object of their continued scrutiny. "How's he doing?" he asked huskily.

Arthur realised, with a heavy sense of guilt, that he had been so caught up in his own thoughts he hadn't given one to check on his friend in the last few minutes. He fumbled for the wrist Gwaine wasn't holding aloft, and gripped it tightly. His face grew thoughtful; his lips pursed, and he didn't immediately let go of the flaccid limb.

Gwaine frowned, staring at his King, his concern growing as no information came. "What? What is it?" he asked. Still no reply. "ARTHUR!" he all but shouted, giving the cot an angry kick. Instead of a response from the King, however, it was Merlin who reacted to the jolt to the bed, his breath hitching audibly. The attention of both King and knights was instantly drawn to the bed, breath held. They waited. And waited. And Merlin did not take another breath.

Gwaine leaned closer to his friend, his eyes desperately searching the face for a sign. "Come on, Merlin, mate, you're scaring the Princess," he muttered, swallowing to re-moisten a suddenly-dry throat.

For once, his insult elicited no reaction from the King. Then, as if on cue, the dark-haired man took a small, shallow breath, followed a few seconds later by another. Arthur let out a loud exhalation, bowing his head in relief, willing his heart rate to slow in the same instant he willed Merlin's to get stronger than the one he had just felt on the fragile wrist, delusional as he knew the wish to be.

"Atta boy," Gwaine murmured, the crack in his voice betraying how scared he had felt in those few, long seconds, before the young man had done as his mind had been silently screaming at him to do. He gave the arm he held a light squeeze of gratitude, and then shifted his gaze to the blond man beside him; still wanting an answer to his earlier question. "Well?"

A muscle twinged on the King's brow. The rest of his body remained stock still. Apart from his eyes, which trailed slowly up the body of his dying friend, to meet the other's brown-eyed gaze.

"We need Gaius, now," he uttered bleakly.


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N:  
**

**Hi everyone, me again (must really be starting to annoy you now, LOL). So here's chapter 8 for you to enjoy/shout at/use to line the cat litter tray...whatever floats your boat.  
**

**Thank you to everyone who has followed, favourited and reviewed...you are all shiny, lovely people.  
**

**Disclaimer: If I wish really hard, I do own Merlin. Nope, still not come true...ho hum.  
**

* * *

**Chapter 8**

It had been half an hour since Gwen and Elyan had left, and Arthur was now unwittingly treading the same path that the dark-haired girl had been doing earlier in the evening. At some point, he had taken the still bloodied herb knife out of the sheath in his boot and was alternately twirling the hilt or stabbing it into various items of furniture on his way up and down the cluttered room; only stopping every few minutes to glare at the still-closed door, as if by doing so a certain elderly gentleman with herculean eyebrows would magically appear and come bustling in.

Arthur was not good at waiting. He was good at doing, and ordering others to do, because that was a way of doing something. But waiting, no, that would not do. Waiting gave him too much time to think and to question; whether he'd made the right decision or whether he was doing the right thing. Would his father approve? Or the council? Or his men; his people? Could he have chosen better, if he had more experience; more wisdom? Is this really what it meant to be King? Was he a good King? Shouldn't there be more glory and feeling of righteousness, and less time spent masticating over decisions it was too late to change? Would it ever get any easier? Did he have a choice? What would he be doing right now if he was a farmer; with nothing to concern him except the planting, upkeep and harvesting of his crops? Certainly not agonising over an ailing friend, an absent physician and whatever events of the past had brought him to this torturous mess.

"Hey, Princess," Gwaine said, scattering the King's thoughts, "wanna come and take over for a moment? My arm's falling asleep."

Arthur glared at the tousle-haired knight from where he stood by the Physician's dining table, a slight look of disbelieving contempt on his face. Gwaine schooled his expression to appear as sincere as his features could ever get; holding the King's gaze until Arthur nodded in capitulation, and crossed the room to sit on the newly vacated stool.

Gwaine went and stood in the middle of the room, and performed a series of exaggerated stretches to ease the tense muscles in his shoulders and back; his neck bones cracking audibly. He looked back across at the blond man, but his attention was not returned: too intent as Arthur was on watching any signs of a change in the condition of the bed's occupant. Truth be told, the knight could have stayed holding his friend's arm up for many hours yet, without the need for rest. But he had become increasingly concerned with the King's erratic behaviour, especially with - what he guessed was - the weapon Merlin had done the deed with, judging by the blood stains and the fierce grip Arthur had on it, as if he sought to punish it for its wicked part in the act. And so he did the only thing he could think of: cause a bit of a distraction, where humour was doomed to fail.

Gwaine wondered for a moment what Arthur had done with the knife, and scanned the area he had last seen him brandishing it in, before spotting it, standing upright; its tip embedded in the table nearest the bed. The blade and hilt - once shining silver and nut brown - were now dulled almost all over with dark reddish brown swirls and clouds. Gwaine clenched his jaw and tightened his fists. He couldn't understand why Arthur hadn't gotten rid of it, never mind how he could stand to touch it. He didn't imagine that Gaius would need to see it to know how to treat Merlin's wound, so he couldn't see the point in its continued presence, except to serve as a reminder of how they had failed their friend. Running a hand though his hair, he looked over again at the supine figure. In the time since Arthur had deposited Merlin on the cot, he had fared from bad to worse; his breathing now coming in frequent, shallow gasps, and his pulse was worryingly fast and faint. The only plus was that the cut on his wrist appeared to have stopped bleeding - or at least slowed to a very light trickle, thought he couldn't help but wonder if that was more to do with there being less blood for his heart to pump around his body than their efforts to prevent it escaping.

"Where the fuck are they?" Arthur growled, glaring at the door. "How long does it take to bloody walk to fucking town and back?!"

Gwaine opened his mouth - he wasn't sure why, but felt an answer was needed to a question, even if it was only to unnecessarily remind the King that Gaius was an old man and couldn't walk as fast as his younger summoners - when they heard the sudden approach of footsteps. The door burst open to reveal Elyan, closely followed by Gwen and - to Arthur, Gwaine and Percival's enormous relief - Gaius; the latter breathing hard and sweating as he hobbled in, clutching at a stitch in his side.

The old man absentmindedly dumped his bag of supplies on the nearest bench and hurried over to the cot, his gaze fixed - from the moment he had entered the room - on his ward. Arthur stood up and gestured for the physician to take his seat, and with a small nod of thanks, Gaius sat down heavily, smoothly taking over the holding of Merlin's wrist as he did. The room became unnervingly quiet as all eyes honed on the physician's face for his reaction to Merlin's symptoms and verdict on the outcome.

Arthur's heart dropped when he saw the frown of concentration on the wrinkled old face deepen into one of disquietude. Still keeping a tight hold on the slender, white wrist, the physician bent forwards and pressed an ear to the barely-moving chest beneath him, and Arthur wondered how much more of a battering his own heart could take as the old man's face grew pale enough to rival his ward's.

"Gaius?" he asked tentatively, not wanting to break the man's concentration, but by now too desperate for some sign of reassurance - that their efforts were not in vain, and they would not lose their friend - to stay silent any longer.

Gaius ignored him as he continued with his examination; lifting the young man's eyelids - one at a time, shoving bluish lips away from his teeth to check his gums, looking at his fingertips and pressing the back of his own hand to the pale, clammy forehead.

With a suddenness that made Gwen flinch noticeably, the old man dropped his ward's forearm, whirled from his chair and hobbled over to the cupboard that held the majority of his potions and herbs. He frantically began to rifle through the mind-boggling collection of vials, bottles and jars; rejecting some with a frustrated little growl while gathering others to his chest with loud clinking sounds in the too quiet room.

"Gaius, please?" Arthur called more forcefully; not bothering to hide the distress in his voice.

Gaius moved over to the main workbench, where he dumped the containers he held with a clatter, and then leaned on the wood with an exasperated sigh. "Sire," he snapped in a tight voice, "I need room to work and Merlin needs air to breath. He looked round pointedly at each of the room's tense and fearful-looking occupants before continuing. "I thank you for all you have done for him tonight, but you cannot do any more for him now and there are too many people in this room."

The knights exchanged a few slightly hurt but resigned glances, and then began to file slowly and reluctantly out the room, with a few murmurings to indicate their expectation of an imminent update on the health of their young friend. Gwaine was the last to leave, and he couldn't hide the mild glare he threw. First, in the direction of the patient's cot - as if Merlin was doing his utmost to be difficult by remaining unconscious, thus depriving his friends of concrete proof that he was going to be okay - and then the old man, for ensuring that any news they had of the young man's state would come second hand, and not soon enough for his liking.

The old physician was too bent on his task of crushing, mixing and shaking ingredients to notice either the rogue knight's look, or the fact that not all the bedside attendees had followed through with his request, until the stern voice of his King made him jump.

"Gaius, please don't make me order you to tell me. Is he going to be okay?"

Gaius' hands stilled and he clutched at the wood of the table, as if drawing strength from it for what he had to say. At last, in a broken voice that spoke more truth than any words he could utter, he said, "I wish I could, sire, but the truth is that I just don't know. He's lost a lot of blood, and has gone into shock." He lifted the mortar, and with shaking hands - that no amount of calming breaths would still - he brought its lip to meet the opening of the small, empty bottle beside it, with a soft clink. When the bottle was full, he corked it and then shuffled quickly back over to the bed, before dropping back onto the small stool at its side.

"This should help to increase the blood flow, and slow his heart and breathing, which are entirely too fast. Gwen, if you could?" He looked up then, and the maid - startled from her own shock at hearing the candour in his words - immediately came over and sat opposite him, to pinch her friend's nose closed. With a satisfied grunt, the old man uncorked the bottle, forced it between bloodless lips, and tipped the contents into the young man's mouth. When a small dribble of the brownish liquid appeared at the corner of Merlin's mouth, Gaius dropped the empty bottle to the bed and shoved a hand under the back of the young man's neck, to tip his head back slightly, and hopefully force the potion down his oesophagus. He reached over with his other hand to firmly stroke the unmoving throat until at last, with a satisfied sigh, he coaxed the muscles there to flex and draw the liquid down.

"Good boy," he murmured quietly, and fondly stroked a thumb down the pale cheek. Feeling as if she was suddenly intruding on a private moment, Gwen quickly released her friend's nose and with a red tint to her cheeks, looked away.

The rough sound of Gaius clearing his throat drew her attention back again, before he muttered in a low voice, as if the words had tumbled from his thoughts without his permission "I'd better see to the wound."

* * *

The noise of the stool's legs being scraped on the stone floor seemed uncommonly loud in the quiet chambers, as the physician stood again and wandered - slightly less panicked this time - back to his work bench. Gwen tuned out the sounds of drawers being opened and closed and desk contents being shifted around, her gaze once again drawn to the face on the bed beside her; seeking answers there to the riddle of 'why' that she had been asking herself for the past hour or two. As she expected, Merlin's face was too devoid of any clues to help in her search; the lines and shadows it had been plagued with for too long now almost completely smoothed away by the peace it never seemed to attain when animated anymore. Only the person behind that facade held the answers, and she very much doubted that - even if he was able to - he would be willing to divulge them; given the mental state he had to be in to try to take his own life.

_Oh why hadn't he spoken to her? Why? Had they not been close friends for enough years now for her sincerity to be clear, when she showed her concern and begged for his openness? What could have been so terrible, so impossible to share that he would rather keep it inside; letting it tear at his guts and his soul until it left nothing but an empty shell? So dead to the world on the inside it cried out for its state to be matched on the outside. Why Merlin, why? I was..no AM your friend! You are like a little brother to me - can't you see that? And family _should_ share things - good or bad. Or was our friendship always a lie? My trust in you not echoed in me. You used to share everything with me - your joys, fears, love, anger - so what changed? Why am I no longer the confidante to you that you are to me? I know I have been busy recently - well, we all have...you included - but that doesn't mean I've not been there for you; wouldn't have dropped everything at a moment's notice to share your burden. If you would only let me in again. But your heart has been locked away in the shadows for so long now; the key - if there ever was one - cast away and forgotten._

The warm, heavy hand of her lover, as it dropped out of nowhere on her shoulder, made her lose her train of thought with a sharply sucked in breath. Mindlessly, she raised a hand to join his larger one and grasp it. The returning tightness of his grip communicated the similarity of their thinking, in a way that words would pale by comparison. She half turned to look up at him, and mirrored the momentary twitch of his mouth with a thin smile of her own; though her eyes were unwilling to abandon their worry lines to join in.

The growing loudness of the Physician's exasperated huffs and numerous tuts, drew the couple's attention, and they both craned their necks round to catch sight of the old man; still rifling through the chaos of his belongings. Slamming his fists on the desk, the old man eventually cursed loudly "Damn it all, why can't that boy tidy things when I ask him to!" Though her cheeks reddened slightly at the physician's unusual outburst, Gwen said nothing to admonish him; her lips narrowing and forehead creasing in sympathy for his momentary loss of control.

She went and stood next to the old man, and laid a calming hand on his arm, to still its quite visible trembles, as he fought to conquer his anxiety. "Gaius," she said, tentatively, "can I help you find whatever you're looking for?"

Gaius swallowed and gave her a semi-apologetic glance for his eruption, before clearing his throat with a small cough and muttering "Needles and thread...he...where did he-"

"It's alright," Gwen interrupted, giving his arm a gentle squeeze, "I think I saw them earlier." She hurried over to another table that held a plethora of bowls, tubes, herbs and candlesticks, and quickly found what she was looking for with a triumphant "Ah, here they are!"

Gaius meanwhile had taken a small bowl over to the fireplace, and dipped it into the now steaming cauldron of water that Percival had filled and set boiling earlier. Grabbing a handful of rags from the top of a nearby chest, he swiftly returned to the cot, and placed them and the bowl on a small table nearby. Taking in the view of the blood-soaked blue tunic with a more jaundiced eye, he began to reach for his ward in order to deprive him of it, and start the cleaning process properly, but then paused and looked up at the King, who seemed at a loss for something to do to help.

"Sire, would you mind helping me remove his tunic?"

"Sure," the blond man replied, with obvious relief that he was no longer idle, and sat down on the stool that was still warm from Gwen's body heat. After only a moment's hesitation, while he contemplated how to do what needed to be done, Arthur pushed a hand underneath his manservant's bony back, and lifted it so it curled forwards; steadying the limp torso quickly with his other hand, before the body could roll off the cot. Together, they somehow managed to wrestle the wet and scarlet-patterned material up and over the raven-haired head, and immediately, as if it were a well-rehearsed act, gasped aloud in unison; releasing the pale arms from their nerveless grips. Merlin fell back on the bed like a discarded rag; his head lolling to one side, and arms falling askew.

Gwen hurried over to see the reason for Arthur's breathless utterance of "Oh Gods!", and Gaius' strangled and horror-filled cry of his ward's name, and came to a stuttering halt at the foot of the cot; her hand shooting up to cover her mouth, a second too late to prevent the huge gasp she drew in.

It was not the thin sheen of sweat or the almost-translucency of his skin that snared the air in their lungs. Nor was it the way his ribs and collarbone stuck out far too prominently, or how his belly was so hollowed out, they could almost see his spine peeking through from his back; betraying the conspiracy of self-starvation his baggy clothes had for far too long kept out of sight. No, it was the macabre pattern of criss-crossing red lines, stretching over almost every inch of visible skin, that drained the blood from the faces of his three friends.

The cuts ranged in size and colour, determined by the depth of their creator's despair at the time of their making, and their current stage of healing. Some were mere nicks; nothing unusual, per se, for someone who frequently had the job of cleaning, sharpening and being on the receiving end of his master's weapons. Were it not for their vast number and neat regularity. Others were nothing short of gashes; being several inches in length, and could quite clearly have come only as a result of a deliberate and lingering encounter with a blade, in the hand of someone whose sole intent was to cause pain and severe damage. Some still gaped open and wept, with a gleeful and malicious mixture of ichor and pus, having only been wrought in the last couple of days, and not cared for properly. Others had dried and darkened to broken dark lines or even the pale pinkness of new skin; taunting them with whispers that Merlin's shrouded hobby had been going on for some time. Too long.

None of them could fail to notice that the etchings were restricted to the area of their friend's skin that would normally be covered by his tunic. Clearly Merlin - and there was no doubt that he was the perpetrator of each one of those marks - had wanted their existence, like all the woes that had led to their creation, kept secret.

* * *

The first thing that Arthur felt, after the initial shock had worn off, was disbelief, though this was short-lived; being ousted by a bout of nausea and then swiftly displaced by anger. Almost revelling in this familiar - and therefore quite comforting - emotion, Arthur allowed it to simmer and bubble away in his chest, until he felt sure his skin must be crimson enough to rival a blacksmith's forge, and his head about to explode from the pressure. Subconsciously, his hands balled into fists, and twisted in the rough folds of his manservant's homespun tunic that he still held, until the sound of tearing fabric and a slight give in the cloth forced him to take long, measured breaths (in and out his nose, as his teeth were too firmly clamped shut to let the air pass) before he could loosen bunched up muscles enough to release the item of clothing to the floor.

He was about to allow some relief from the building pressure in his throat, by letting rip with a stream of choice phrases at the idiocy and thoughtlessness of his unconscious friend, but was beaten to it by a sob, emanating from beside him. Arthur turned his head sharply to see Gwen standing there, her hands vainly trying to stifle her cries, while her shoulders shook, and two thick lines of salt water sluiced down her pale cheeks. In an instant, the King bit back his retorts, swallowed his pride, and was folding her in his arms; allowing her to moisten his shoulder while he glared over hers at the unconscious servant who lay there, completely oblivious to the emotional turmoil his harrowing deeds had caused.

* * *

Gaius, in those minutes since the revelation of his ward's sins, had not moved; a white and wizened statue that could do nothing but stare aghast at what had once been his smiling, happy, cheeky boy, but which now lay broken and bloodied and wretched by his own hand. The only movement came from his bent and crabbed hand, that clutched at the front of his own tunic, as if trying to unearth from his soul a reason why he could not have spotted the signs of what his ward had been doing to himself, before it had gotten so far.

There had to have been some clues he could have picked up on before now. Perhaps his stock of bandages or salves being lower than expected? Or the odd pained wince, even if quickly suppressed, when the young man sat at or rose from their dinner table; on the infrequent occasions when he joined him for too few bites of a meal, before rushing out the door, leaving mumblings of unfinished chores for the King in his wake.

Oh how he kicked himself now for not doing more to try and force him to linger a little longer, to eat a bit more, or talk about his day. He had _tried_ talking to him now and then; asking questions that he'd hoped to lead to the young man opening up and sharing his concerns, as he used to do. And he _had_ noticed a certain atmosphere of deep thought, and even melancholy in the air around the dark-haired head, despite the empty smiles and cursory waves of fake cheer, as he hastened to exit the room. But over the years, he had learned to just accept the oddity of his ward's ways, and ability to ignore hunger pangs; whether he was off to save the kingdom, or wash the king's undergarments.

And besides, he wasn't a boy anymore, and had made it quite clear on more than one occasion that he would not be hand-led by his mentor. Therefore what right did his guardian have to step in and force the issue? If his experience of parenting the young warlock so far had taught him anything, it was that the lessons and warnings he tried to instil in Merlin would only stick if they were begot through the young man making mistakes. Fortunately - or unfortunately, depending on the point of view - he made these frequently, and so had come fairly far already in his education, when it came to learning to overcome his ability to do stupid things.

Like this.

"Stupid boy. You stupid, _stupid_ bo-" his last word was cut off by the constriction in his throat, and powerless to prevent it, a hiccupping sob escaped the bounds of his chest; followed on its heels by the tears that he tried to hide behind shaking hands.

The shock of seeing the usually stalwart physician break down in front of them was enough to instantly stem Gwen's own sorrow, and she burst out of Arthur's embrace to scurry round the cot and lay a gentle hand on Gaius' shoulder. It only took the old man a few moments to regain his composure, and sniff his emotions back under a veneer of semi-control; patting Gwen's hand with a quiet grunt of "Thank you, my dear." He glanced back at the object of their remorse and, finding it only marginally less gut-wrenching to view the second time, he turned away, muttering "I'd better get started on those stitches."

Acceptance: that's what it all boiled down to, in Gaius' mind. Acceptance of what Merlin had done, so that they could bear to deal with the results. Acceptance that there was nothing they could have done to prevent it from happening; that whatever solace or admonishments they could have given would not necessarily have been ward enough against such obvious determination to self-loathe. Acceptance that was done was done; that there was no benefit to be gained from dwelling on the hows, whens, and whys - for the immediate future, at least - and instead focusing on returning as swiftly as possible to a near-enough state of normality. Later would be the time for questions, for yelling and crying and pleading; for things said in anger and then hopefully, eventually, in jest.

Now was the time for horror and raw pain to be hidden at the back of a wardrobe; in the darkness, where it could neither grow nor draw attention to itself. It was not denial, no; it was moving on. For now, at least. Attempting to move past the siege in their chests that was Merlin's crime, so that they could delude themselves - for a short time - that everything would be okay. Because the consequences, if it was not, were too abominable to contemplate.

* * *

It took an hour to clean, suture, salve and bandage the worst of Merlin's wounds, and in the end, Gaius had been glad that his two helpers had stayed. For he had been unable to hold back the tremble in his hands enough to keep the needle steady, and had therefore made good use of Gwen's seamstress' skills to take care of the stitching for him. After countless battles and the setting up of resultant infirmaries - where it was a case of 'all hands on deck', as far as those not directly involved in the fight were concerned - Gaius had come to appreciate and even admire the maid's skills with a needle and thread, at holding together rent human flesh. He therefore had no qualms about letting her do so with his ward's abused skin.

The King too had made himself useful, by steadying the limp body, as it was wrapped in - what seemed to be - yards and yards of linen, and then carrying it to be laid carefully on the rickety cot in Merlin's room. The potion Gaius had force fed his ward had finally started to have some effect. Whilst he was by no means out of the woods yet, a vague pathway had been found, and his pulse and breaths had slowed and strengthened just enough to give his carers the barest of hope that he would not pass into the nonreturnable ether at any given moment.

Gaius' weary assurance, to keep the King informed of any change to his ward's condition, went some way to persuading the blond man that there was nothing left to do but try and snatch a few hours of sleep. Or more likely, toss and turn until daylight dragged him back to his duties. The King promised Gwen - with a small peck and a voice made hollow from the emotional overload of the day - that he would send one of his knights to relieve her not-to-be-persuaded-otherwise vigil in the morning, and then slowly plodded out.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N:**

First of all, I want to apologise to everyone about the contents of the previous chapter. I knew it was dark, but had no idea how upsetting it would be to some of you. It was never my intention to scare any of you away, and I had thought that the warning I put in at the beginning of chapter one would suffice. I have now upped the rating of this fic, and added a warning in the summary, so it should give no more sleepless nights to anyone.

Secondly, I want to say a huge thank you for those of you who have stuck with my fic, despite its disturbing imagery, and showered me in your kind words of praise and encouragement (including those of you who were signed in as a guest, and therefore to whom I could not thank or apologise personally, as I would wish). It is thanks to you that this fic has a new chapter and has not been binned as a bad idea :O)

**Disclaimer:**

I do not own Merlin (and that's probably not a bad thing, as I would very likely make it so dark they would only be able to broadcast it at 2am, when all sensible people are in bed).

* * *

**Chapter 9  
**

Kilgharrah watched as the little white dragon stalked her prey. Whether the Rock Ptarmigan was already aware of the large reptile's not-very-sneaky approach (and was simply taunting her by waiting until the last second to take flight), or whether the bird really was that stupid, he couldn't be sure. But he couldn't help releasing the low, guttural laugh from deep within his throat when - after a small wiggle of the hatchling's rear, a lashing of the tail, and a distinctly undignified squeal - she leapt forwards, and the fat, speckled bird took to the wing. The erstwhile plaything only flew 20 yards away, before it fluttered back down to the grassy escarpment, as if it and the young dragon were performing an elaborate dance, and the bird was awaiting the next stage of the recital. Aithusa let out a growling huff; a fine trickle of smoke trailing out of each nostril, to drift on the brisk mountain breeze, as it momentarily flattened the clumps of grass and heather, and ruffled the feathers of the staring bird. Hearing her guardian's chortle, the young dragon angled her long, graceful neck around to fire a glare at him, before turning back around to begin her next shuffling approach to the feather-bound victim.

Being a foster parent to the only other dragon in all of Albion, and the first hatchling he had encountered for at least a hundred and fifty years, was no easy task for the Great Dragon, and he didn't exactly have much in the way of help with the role. The raising of a newly hatched dragon would normally be the combined effort of the mother dragon and her mate as well as no small contribution from both dragons' dragonlords. But with all adult dragons, besides himself, long dead, and only one dragonlord surviving - he barely more than a hatchling himself - the availability of mentors and chaperons was fairly limited.

As had more frequently been the case recently, Kilgharrah's thoughts turned to Balinor's son. In the weeks immediately following the warlock's summons of the white dragon from her shell, Merlin had visited the new dragon and her mentor, as often as his duties, and ability to sneak out of Camelot undetected, would allow. The young warlock had seemed to enjoy the company of the newest addition to the dragon race, and her juvenile antics, almost as much as she did those of the gangly human. Indeed, more often than not, the oldest member of the trio would have to remind his young lord of the approaching end of night and their regretful need to depart. Merlin would do so with a cheerful wave and a promise to see his kin again soon.

But gradually, the gap between their meetings had grown larger and larger, until the last few weeks, when there had been no summons to 'their' clearing at all. Kilgharrah's initial anger at the dragonlord's apparent abandonment of his duties, so early on, had soon given way to concern at the young man's continued absence. On the one hand, he was anxious for his young ward's development. Whilst the hatchling had the inborn ability to sense a wielder of magic when she was near one, without periodic contact with a dragonlord, in those important early years, she would not be able to acquire the ability to discern this race of men from other people with magic. Without Merlin's influence, she would not learn to take heed of those born to be her masters and her kin. In short, she could become untameable; wild. And that was a disastrous state for one of the last two dragons to be in, particularly when she was so small and vulnerable to the hate of ignorant men.

Then on the other hand, the Great Dragon was also troubled by the condition of his lord. Being kin, he had an unbreakable connection to the young warlock, and even when they were parted - as they were now - by a great distance, he could still sense - in some vague, almost subconscious way - when something was not right with Merlin. And something was definitely now right with him. Something had been 'not right', and become increasingly 'not right', for some time now. It was not often that Kilgharrah fretted over something. He had a thousand years of life experiences and even older prophecies to lend strength to his conviction that what was, was what must be (and therefore, there was no use in trying to rewrite what could not be unwritten). Now, however, Kilgharrah was very disturbed by the feelings his empathic link with the warlock had revealed to him.

What had started out as minor sensations of ineptitude and dispiritedness had changed - over a relatively short period time, from a dragon's perspective - through anxiety and moroseness, into what could only be described as despair. The 'presence' that was Merlin, at the back of the dragon's mind, now sat in a cloud of complete and utter hopelessness - so much so that it weighed heavily in Kilgharrah's heart, like a large lump of granite. A cloud that could not be dispersed by even the most comical of diversions his white charge provided.

With a loud and deep grunt, that sounded like the rumble of an encroaching thunderstorm, the golden dragon came to a decision. As deeply as it burned against the bonds of his dragonlord's command, he wanted - no needed - to go to Camelot. Only then would he be close enough to 'speak' with his lord, and gain some insight as to why the young man was no longer the buoyant, sanguine person he had always been.

Kilgharrah looked over at his young charge, who had now taken to chasing the small bird in the air, instead of on the ground, with no greater success in catching it (having a lot less experience and agility in flight). Drawing in a great lungful of air, the great dragon expelled it in a single, brief puff, and the Ptarmigan, caught in the powerful gust, was bowled over and over, its wings flapping frantically, until it was able to regain control of its path. With a very agitated twittering, it flew as far and fast away as it could from the two suddenly-not-so-benign creatures it had shared airspace with.

Uttering an angry trill at the early termination of her game, Aithusa landed - a little clumsily, to her mentor's exasperation - in front of the golden dragon. She flapped her wings once or twice to communicate her annoyance, before folding them neatly along her back and looking up at him, her head cocked to one side.

_"I was playing with that!"_ the white dragon said huffily, in the great dragon's mind.

_"Hmm,"_ Kilgharrah grumbled back. _"Birds are _not_ for playing with; they are for eating insects or being eaten. And you were supposed to be practicing the spell I taught you, not playing, young one," _he admonished.

Aithusa hung her head despondently. _"Sorry, Gharrah,"_ she muttered, eyes staring at the heath, that had been flattened by her curtailed game, at her feet. _"I was bored!"_

_"_Kil_gharrah," _he reminded her, as he had done so many times, since that first time she had squeaked his name in his head. _"And you must learn to focus, young one, on the task at hand. A dragon without control of his magic is like-"_

_"The Once and Future King without Emrys. Yes, I know!"_Aithusa chimed in a blasé tone.

_"Then you must practice, as all beings of magic must."_

_"Yeees, Gharrah,"_ the white dragon's tone was bordering on insolence, to which the great dragon gave a gruff harrumph.

_"Good, then remember that, for the next couple of days while I'm away; I will expect to see much improvement when I return."_

At this, the white dragon looked into his molten eyes, her interest piqued. _ "Where are you going?"_

Kilgharrah, not wishing to involve the dragon in his concerns for the warlock, or place her in danger by taking her too close to the world of men (she was still so unwise in the ways of magic-haters), only said, _"I need to speak with someone."_

_"Is it Merlin?"_ she perked up further with enthusiasm.

_"No,"_ he lied, though sorry to have to do so, in the face of her desire to see the warlock again after so long. However, he steeled himself against her all too apparent display of disappointment, and said sternly, _"I will escort you back to our cave, and you will stay there until I return."_ When the hatchling was about to moan a protest, he cut her off with a deep rumble in his throat, that drew smoke from the corners of his pursed mouth, and the young dragon's gaze fell south again, her wings drooping in capitulation.

The great dragon gave one final, satisfied grunt and then said simply, _"Come," _before launching himself in the cooling afternoon air, with a great thrust from the bunched muscles of his hind quarters.

The Rock Ptarmigan peeked above the shelter of the pink-flowered heather it had been cowering under, in time to see two large silhouettes shrinking in the sky above it, heading south. Relieved that the immediate danger had passed, the speckled bird flew out from the low shrub and began pecking at the scrubby ground again; feasting on the insects that were drawn by the diminishing heat of the fading day.

* * *

Darkness.

All around him.

Not the comforting, peaceful, restful kind, that you would get from a deep, satisfying sleep. No, this was heavy, suffocating, cloying. Weighing him down like a mountain of blankets left out in winter rain.

He wanted to escape, but no matter how hard he tried, the unrelenting darkness would not let him. In a near state of panic, he attempted to reach out to something or someone for help, to drag him out of the mire he was caught in, but he wasn't even sure if he could feel his limbs anymore, never mind see anything that would aid his escape.

He called out, and only then realised he had no voice. Or perhaps he did, but could not hear it; the darkness smothering every sense, every connection to the world around him. All he was, was a collection of emotions, feelings, and all that they felt was wrongness. This was not how it was supposed to be.

Avalon was supposed to feel calm; a haven of unearthly beauty where those who had passed on were reunited with the ones they had loved and lost.

Not this...this loneliness and nothingness. This was no better than the world he had left behind. At least there he could feel and see and hear and he was not physically alone. Even though he had felt isolated and outcast - a monster, for his sinful gift...his curse - he had had company, and air to breathe, and wind, and rain on his face. There were people who cared for him - or at least, pretended to - even if he had lost the desire to care about himself for some time now.

How could the philosophers have got it so wrong? This was not how the afterlife should be. If he had known, maybe he wouldn't have... But how could he have known? Death was the ultimate question. The only way to answer it was to experience it, and then there was no going back to the state of not knowing.

_Ignorance is bliss!_

Time passed. But with no method for measuring it, he had no way of knowing if it was minutes or hours or days. Only that it was too long. He couldn't stay here forever, could he? Because he was still aware, damn it! He could still think, still knew of his existence. And though he probably deserved this new state of being, it was somehow also unfair. He had just wanted to be free. Free from the pain in his body and his mind. Was that too much to ask?

Apparently so. Because now that he thought about it, he was hurting. He was sore, in more places than one.

Eh? When did that happen? He tried to isolate where the pain was coming from, but it was too muddled and mixed in with the noise and the heat.

There was noise...no, noises. They gurgled and bubbled in his ears, making as little sense as if he had his head underwater. Was he drowning? He didn't feel wet. Or did he? Nothing made any sense anymore, so could he trust his senses? After a moment or two of thinking about it, he realised that he was actually hot...very hot in fact. It was like the times when he was forced to dress from head to foot in armour and spend the day in the sweltering heat of the mid-summer sun, while Arthur refined his skills in beating a half-cooked prey senseless with a mace, or sword, or axe - whatever took his royal fancy.

He could not feel the surface beneath him or his clothes around him, but he could feel the heat leave him in waves, bar a cooler patch on his forehead...or at least where he believed his forehead to be.

He tried to focus on the sounds...voices, he instinctively knew...but they would not be separated into comprehensible words, so he left them to swirl in his consciousness and out his ears, until they were ready to make more sense..._damn them!_ Whatever they were and whoever was saying them, they did not sound happy. Maybe angry, or sad, or pleading, he really couldn't tell, so thought it best to let sleeping dogs lie. He was probably better off not knowing anyway. For a fleeting moment, he thought that he might have said as much in answer to the voices, but if he did, he either couldn't hear his own words or didn't know what they meant, so it was pointless listening out for a response from whomever had been - and, for all he knew, could still be - talking to him...or about him...or even just near him. He knew better by now than to believe that he had the right to be the centre of anyone's attention. For that, you had to matter.

For now, the world was a confusing, hot, noisy place, and he was better off out of it.

He drifted, and he was glad to escape the bewildering sounds and heat and horrible feeling of suffocation that the darkness evoked...

Some time later, he could have sworn he had opened his eyes - did he still have eyes? - and a blur materialised from the gloom. The blur grew in size, like it was coming closer, perhaps? He was pretty certain it was not him that had moved, so whatever - or whoever - it was must have moved towards him. The details of the blur only sharpened marginally - not enough to tell who it was, but enough to let him know that it was a person, or at least a face (_but you couldn't get a face without a body behind it_, he mused detachedly). The slightly less undefined blob definitely had hair - though he could not tell what colour - and could have been wearing something red, but then again, it could have been an angry swarm of bees, judging by the sound that seemed to be emanating from the blob. It was angry, demanding; a buzzing in his ears that he did not like, though he couldn't quite hear the words, if there were any that is. The sound rose and sank in pitch, like a crazy tune, played by a novice musician. And was that his name, in amongst the raggedy hubbub?

He blinked once, twice; each time the blob dissipated a little more, and the noise grew less distinct. The third blink didn't happen, or if it did, it was infinitesimally slow, because the darkness once again engulfed him.

The next time he opened his eyes, he could see a great deal more clearly, and what he saw made his heart sink to the pit of his stomach.

"Welcome back."


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N:  
**

**Hi folks! Here's the next chapter for you, and I'm sorry if I disappoint anyone, but it's not the confrontation just yet. Just need this last bit of set up/interlude before the fun begins *snigger*. But I promise that will come in the next chapter (which I am working on, and it's nearly ready to go).  
**

**Thank you all once again for sticking with me and for your fantastic reviews. Those of you to whom I could not reply are just as lovely and appreciated as those to whom I could (and I wish there was some way I could thank you personally).  
**

**Disclaimer:**

**Merlin is the solely owned by Shine. Why can't they have shares in it? Then I could say (with hand on heart) that I DO own it (or at least part of it...baggsies on Colin's mouth!).  
**

* * *

**Chapter 10**

"...and a representative from the stonemasons guild would like to arrange a personal meeting with you to discuss the terms of the agreement signed with your father two years ago. It would seem that the new policy you drew up with the carpenters' guild last month has become public knowledge and..."

Lord Bretel's thin, nasally voice droned on and on, like the wings of a tired fly as it battered incessantly - for hours and hours - against the panes of a window. Arthur had long since tuned him out, and only periodically focused his hearing to pick up enough words here and there to string together a vague gist of the noble's long and convoluted speech (for such a time as his opinion was sought, instead of just being spoken to). Judging by the quiet snores of Lord Corbet, coming from the far end of the council table, he was not the only one who had long ago succumbed to boredom, and a need to mentally be somewhere else.

The scary thing was that this scenario had become all too frequent in recent times. Although he had had to take a more proactive role in council meetings whilst his father had been alive, and suffering from the effects of his only daughter's betrayal, it was since Uther's death that the onus had completely shifted onto Arthur. The emotional and physical burden sometimes seemed too much, even for his broad shoulders to bear, and if not for the support of his Uncle, he would long ago have hung up his crown and gone to live on that farm he and Gwen had once talked about. It didn't help either that he did not have a certain young, raven-haired, always late, cheeky-mouthed idiot to distract him with nothing more than a smirk or an eye-roll from the periphery of the room.

And there also was the crux of the problem today, as it had been for the past week. Today, yesterday, the day before, and even the day before that, he had been distracted. Distracted to the point that Agravaine had started showering him more and more often with disapproving frowns. Once or twice he had even tried to remind him - in the privacy of his own chambers, of course - of the necessity to at least appear to be performing his duties in front of his people, and especially certain members of the council. More than one still needed a little convincing that he was capable of filling his father's shoes and was therefore worthy of his title. He did appreciate the man's concern and discretion when voicing it, and deep down, he knew he was right. But in light of recent events - well, one event involving a rather idiotic servant in particular - he was finding it harder and harder to actually care what his council members - and indeed his Uncle - thought of his lack of amenity towards Guild laws, and petitioners, and cattle thieves, and just about anything else it was his solemn duty to oversee.

He had tried many things over the past seven days, to distract himself from his distraction. The latest bill from the straw-man maker's workshop had been placed at the top of the pile of paperwork on his desk that morning by George. The fact that he'd had to have every single one of the practice dummies replaced, in such a short time, served as a not-so-subtle rebuke for his inability to rein in his temper. Though it was fair to say that not all of them had met their end on his own blade. In fact, it was witnessing the brutal removal of one such dummy's head, by a very drunk and very angry Gwaine, that had reminded the King that there were other things he could release his anxieties on than his own goblets and wardrobe doors. Several hours, and pretend enemies later, and he was no nearer to ridding himself of the need to break things, in the absence of being able to talk to the one person who might - if he was only conscious _and_ willing to divulge - have the answers he so desperately sought.

Talking to anyone else hadn't been the solution, either. Gwen had helped...a little. Her voice, touch and kisses had been a kind of soothing balm, anyway. It also gave the King a modicum of relief to know that she had no more idea than him of the mind-workings of their mutual friend. He had not had a great deal of time in the past week to share ideas with the maid. Only snatches of conversation here and there; either first hand, as they exchanged places at Merlin's side, or overheard from the other side of a door, as she helped the physician prepare the many remedies required to ensure his ward's speedy recovery with minimal pain. But even those brief encounters had been more than enough for the King to see the image of his own pain, fear and self-doubt echoed in her often wet eyes and subdued voice.

Gaius also could not fill any more of the gaps in the mystery of his ward, on Arthur's trips to the physician's chambers. And whether his heavy sighs were in exasperation over yet another set of bloody royal knuckles, and pulled shoulders, or the dark-haired man of their scrutiny and despair, the King had decided that he wanted to be neither a witness to nor an instigator of the old man's troubled mind. He had therefore made the conscious decision, in the last couple of days, to keep his visits there to a bare minimum. For the time being, anyway...unless there was any change to be seen in the occupant of the physician's back room.

Arthur had to admit that he had grown more than a little frustrated at the lack of much progress in his friend's health. He had spent as much time as he could discreetly spare, in the first two or three days after that horrible night, either pacing the small spaces in Merlin's room, and the larger one beyond, or taking a turn at soothing his fevered brow. But on all those occasions, the closest he had ever come to seeing some sort of improvement, was when Merlin had opened heavy-lidded eyes, and had seemed to be staring straight at him. The young man's seeming return to consciousness, though, had lasted only a couple of seconds more than it took for Arthur to realise it was a false hope. His servant could not see or hear him, and the windows to his delirious ravings had once again slammed firmly down over glassy, blue irises and dilated pupils. Merlin had not rendezvoused with the land of the wakeful since then, despite his fever having gone down, and Gaius' satisfied conclusion that his wounds were on the mend.

The image of Merlin's pale, fading, lacerated body stole into his mind, like the woodworms that his servant had never managed to find in his chambers. Arthur wasn't quite quick enough to halt the wince that skewed his features, before he was able to vehemently evict the memory from his thoughts. Looking up from the knot in the table he had absentmindedly been studying - when he had let his consciousness wander - he caught the pointed frown his Uncle was throwing in his direction, and immediately looked away. His cheeks carried a slight tinge of red as he shifted stiff limbs, in the hope the improved blood-flow would help wake him up.

"...which will be in time for Prince Anlawd's visit to sign the trade agreements next month. A small increase in the tax of foreigners entering the city to trade should suffice. This will bring our annual intake to approximately..."

His eyes still slightly unfocused and his leg muscles screaming in protest at their sudden call into use, Arthur stood. It was a credit to Lord Bretel's ability to not send himself to sleep during his own speeches when the current one came to a stuttering standstill, and his eyes, along with those of his fellow council members, were cast on the King. Even Lord Corbet had somehow noticed a change in the sleep-inducing proceedings, and had awoken with a loud snort and sudden jerk.

"Sire?" came his Uncle's confused and yet still condescending voice, when no explanation for the king's change in position was forthcoming. Arthur continued to stare, his eyes glazed, into the middle distance. Agravaine, following his gaze and finding no reason for the view to hold his nephew so unrelentingly, deepened the lines on his forehead, before clearing his throat noisily and addressing the young King more forcefully. "Arthur, is there something amiss?"

Arthur blinked and seemed to come out of his daze, and with a slight shake of his head he said, in an almost faraway voice - still not meeting his Uncle's, or any of the council member's pointed looks - "This meeting is adjourned." And ignoring the consternated mutterings and confused frowns that were directed either at him or towards neighbouring occupants of the table, the King pushed back his chair and headed towards the door with a purposeful stride. Agravaine leapt from his own seat so fast he nearly knocked the chair flying, and hastened after his nephew. He trotted past the the two shocked guards, who were still staring in the wake of their King's unexpected departure, to catch up with the blond-haired man, just before he reached the end of the corridor.

Arthur glared down at the leather-gloved hand, that had interrupted his tumultuous thoughts and halted his step to grasp at his rapidly disappearing sleeve. Blue eyes drilled into the unwelcome intrusion on personal space and newly-resolved purpose, until the grip slowly loosened and withdrew, but before he could resume his mission, the dark-haired Lord addressed him again, with a seemingly genuine air of bemusement and urgency.

"What's going on, Arthur?" he began, "There were still a number of items on the agenda to discuss. Do you have another meeting to attend that I was not informed of? We could reconvene-" A single raised hand from the King brought an abrupt end to his suggestion, and the head shake that followed ensured it never left the confines of his pursed lips, so he instead waited for the explanation he was sure he was due.

Once tightly clenched jaw beneath unshaven cheek was released, the words did indeed come; if a little reluctant and snappish. "No, that will not be necessary, thank you, Uncle. We can pick up where we left off at the next council session." The young King made to turn away and carry on with his quest, were it not for the older man taking another step forwards to block his path.

"Arthur, what is going on? You can't just walk out in the middle of a meeting of the council." At the raised eyebrow over cold eye, conveying the unspoken question of 'Who is King here?', Agravaine winced and tempered his next admonishment to something slightly more humble, with a placatory raising of both hands. "I mean, it was a little unexpected, and what with your father's unfortunate mental decline before the end, as well as recent events, well...we wouldn't want idle gossip to turn into whisperings of dissent or a vote of no-"

"Just what exactly are you implying, Agravaine?" Two fists had joined the jaw in a clenching contest and the older man took a small step of submission back.

"Nothing, my lord. My only concern is for your welfare, and that of the impression you give to your subjects." He paused and stoically returned the King's gaze for a moment; attempting to smooth ruffled Pendragon feathers, and convey a sincerity he did not feel.

Arthur sighed heavily and stretched out his fingers, releasing some of the pent-up tension; though his shoulders remained stiff and his brow furrowed. "I appreciate your advice, Uncle, but there's something I must do, so you are free to see to your own affairs."

Agravaine, recognising a dismissal when it was directed his way, gave a minimal bow and watched as his nephew pulled down on the flowing folds of his jerkin and proceeded on his original path. With a smirk and a shake of his dark locks, the King's Uncle spun round and headed in the direction of his own chambers. He had no need of one of the many spies he had around the castle to know where his distracted nephew was headed, and he silently wished every pox and plague he could think of to befall the court physician and his meddling ward.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N:  
**

**Okay everybody-peeps, as promised, here is a confrontation. But before you read it, I have a small warning for you. This is the last pre-written chapter I have. And I am a very slow writer (I know I've been posting these quite quickly, but editing is so much faster than writing from scratch), as well as a procrastinator and a perfectionist. But have no fear - I will be continuing with the story, even though the updates will not be so fast and furious. And I have the rest of it all mapped out - on paper or in my head - so it will be going somewhere.  
**

**Disclaimer:**

**I don't own Merlin, because he's not for sale...much to my sorrow :O(  
**

* * *

**Chapter 11**

By the time Arthur had reached the Court Physician's chambers, he had only managed to calm down the agitation that had been raised by the conversation with his Uncle a marginal amount. And so, as per those wise words of his weapons master, when he had begun his formal training in sword fighting - so long ago now - he took three deep breaths before knocking on the door. He gave enough time for an elderly man with rheumatic joints to cross the chambers before pushing the door open and curling his neck around the door; calling the name of his father's old friend tentatively. With still no sign of the wavy white hair or floor-length robes, he brought the rest of his body into the room and closed the door behind himself, flicking his gaze casually around the untidy chambers for any sign of an occupant - asleep, deaf or otherwise. His eyes lingered a little longer on the patient's cot, remembering with a pang of discomfort the last time he had seen it filled, before he forcefully shirked the image back into the library of memories he couldn't wait to forget. Marching purposely across the room, as if he could thusly prove to the pesky memories that they wouldn't dare provide him with yet another rough night's sleep, he reached the slightly-ajar door of his manservant's room, and carefully - so as to not announce his presence in the medium of creaking wood - he climbed the steps and gingerly widened the opening enough for him to squeeze through.

He did nothing to suppress the heavy, annoyed sigh on seeing that the reason for his visit was still not in a state of consciousness that allowed for anything other than a one-sided conversation. He had to concentrate hard not to stomp down on the floorboards, as he crossed the tiny space to the chair at the bedside. He cringed when on starting to sink onto its seat, his foot caught something by one of the chair's legs, and it clattered to the ground with a loud clinking sound. Looking down, at what he assumed must be one of Gaius' bottles - forgotten after administering a dose of medicine to the patient - he reached out to draw up a tankard, which still held the last dregs of the mead that was now snaking its way slowly across the floor under the chair.

_Gwaine._ He snorted at the man's gall for sneaking alcohol into the Physician's chambers. Gaius, having had more than his fair share of copious vomiting, top-of-the-lungs singing, and dealing with mothers-of-all hangovers (so that the Gwaine could show his face on the training grounds in the morning), had effectively banned him from bringing any sort of 'mood juice' into his rooms. Which the rogue knight had duly considered...and decided that in his case, it did not apply. It wouldn't be the first time that week that Gwaine had forsaken his usual drinking buddies at the tavern for a night of slurred reminiscing with an oblivious Merlin. Not that Arthur could blame him on this occasion. He had been drinking rather more wine than usual himself this past week - whether as an aid to bypassing the hours of tossing and turning in his bed at night, or to damp down the angry pit of fire that bubbled in his belly, whenever his thoughts strayed to his unconscious friend, he couldn't be certain. Likely, a bit of both.

Arthur's rump completed its descent to the rickety chair, and he placed the tankard on the table beside the bed; all the while, not allowing his gaze to move from the still body beside him. Scrutinising him thoroughly, he was relieved to see that a little more colour had returned to Merlin's cheeks - giving them the colour of a plucked chicken, as opposed to fresh curds - and, judging by the lack of a flush or perspiration, his fever had gone. _So why doesn't the stupid idiot wake up? Just how long does he plan on taking to gain back enough of the blood he lost - well, personally drained away, if we're being honest here - to do something as mundane as raise his eyelids for more than a few seconds? Must you be so slow and hopeless at everything, Merlin?_

Granted, Gaius had warned him - once his ward was obviously out of danger - of how close he had come to passing over, and had proceeded to bore Arthur for the next twenty minutes on the unnecessary details of just what losing that much blood did to the body (and therefore what the body had to go through to gain it back). He had, at one point, even experienced a rare pang of sympathy for his manservant, for having to endure - on a regular basis - a mentor in full-blown 'lecture mode'; complete with pictorial backup from several boring textbooks on human anatomy. Suffice to say that he wouldn't be waking up the next day, and probably not the day after that. _But come on...seven days?_

Arthur released a heavy sigh and was part-way to leaning the chair back against the wall, when he received what sounded like an echo from the direction of the pillow, and the chair's front legs slammed back down to the floor. His eyes honed in on the face beside him, breath held and fatigue forgotten, as he hungrily sought signs that the sound he'd heard would be followed up by something more animated.

He was not disappointed. Merlin took a deep draw of air, and his adam's apple bobbed, almost in slow-motion, as he tried to moisten a mouth that had to be dryer than a tavern's cellars, after a visit from Gwaine during the winter festival. One of the most frequent 'treatments' Gaius had had to administer over the past week was nothing more complicated than water; to replenish the young man's dangerously low fluid levels, he had said. But by the way the skin around Merlin's eyes screwed up, the old man had not done so for a while, and Arthur had a fleeting compulsion to find his friend a cup of water, which was just as quickly dampened by his desire to not be absent for the moment he had been waiting for, for too long.

His stubbornness was rewarded a few seconds later, when the pale man's forehead scrunched, then his eyelids fluttered feebly, before slowly parting. Arthur held his breath subconsciously; waiting, wanting to say something. Encouraging or derisive, he couldn't decide, torn as he was by the need to both throttle and hug the dark-haired man that had caused him and his friends so much misery, and then left them hanging, their hearts in their mouths for a whole damn week. After opening and closing his eyes several times, Merlin - still staring at the ceiling - frowned, as if not quite sure what he was looking at.

Arthur opened his mouth to speak, but it was as if that moment, someone had filled it with salt, and he could push no words past his parched larynx. He closed his mouth and swallowed hard, before managing to push out a gruff, "Welcome back."

Merlin gave a small gasp and turned towards him. His eyes took a moment to change, from the shock they had registered at the sudden sound, to recognition of the one who had made it. And then his facial expression morphed again, into something Arthur had not expected, and certainly didn't welcome.

Disappointment.

Then the same, dark mask, that his manservant had been wearing for the past couple of months, dropped down over his features, and he turned his head, so that he was looking back at the roof overhead.

Arthur felt the base of his stomach crash to the floor, and suddenly all the words he had planned on saying to his friend, the first chance that he got, dribbled out of his head and slunk into the shadowed corners of the drab little room. Why? Why had Merlin looked at him that way? His first thought was because, perhaps, Merlin had been expecting someone else to be in his place at his bedside: Gaius or his mother, maybe? But he quickly dismissed this idea; surely they had each woken up from an enforced sleep to the sight of each other's faces on enough occasions by now for it to not be an unpleasant surprise anymore? But the exiling of this thought left a much harder one to bear in its place; one that made Arthur's heart clench in understanding and fear.

And before he could register that it was happening, the young King's own feelings of sadness were bowled aside by the rampaging animal that had appeared out of nowhere: rage. He felt his blood pumping harder and faster through his veins in response, and tightened his jaw and fist; his brow creasing, as if forming a barrier to hold back the scream that wanted to throw itself in the pale man's face.

"Yes, you _are_ still here." A hiss was all the King could manage to squeeze past his clenched teeth. He felt a momentary hint of guilt at the flinch that flitted across his servant's face, but it was easily squashed out of existence by the visions of the many confused and saddened faces he had seen, and the broken-voiced conversations he had heard, over the last few days. He saw the tears streaming from Gwen's beautiful eyes; her face scrunched by fatigue and sorrow and empathised pain for her friend, who had turned away from her every time she had tried to help him; as he had helped her, so many times in the past.

Then there was Gaius: his already-aged features pushed forwards another decade or two by undeserved guilt and shock at having failed to fulfil his duty as a guardian - gods-damn-it, a father! - and protected his son from whatever drew him to do..._that_...and all _those_. Not to mention Gwaine, and to some extent, Percival, Elyan and even Leon; all who had sat where he did now. Thinking. Waiting. Hurting. Because they had thought they were close enough to their friend to share his fears and protect him from them, but had been proved so very wrong.

No, if anyone had a right to feel disappointed, it was not Merlin. He had forfeited that, the moment he had selfishly decided to close everyone off from his world, and prevent them from coming back in, despite repeated attempts and heart-felt entreaties.

Merlin's gaze remained straight ahead; his face so still, Arthur had to check his chest was still rising and falling, to be sure he had not been deluding himself of his friend's return to consciousness; a side-effect of his perpetual state of wishful thinking. And the King felt a fresh rush of anger flood his veins.

"Why the _fuck_ did you do that, Merlin? Why?" he shouted, glaring daggers at the younger man; daring him to voice all the excuses his own mind had dreamt up, in those endless hours of wakefulness each night. Readying every counter excuse, to ram it down his throat, in retaliation for all the time he - and all his friends - had spent worrying, pacing and self-doubting, instead of attending to their own lives. And according to his Uncle, many tongues around the castle had been wagging at the King's dereliction of duty for the sake of a mere servant; albeit it one who had not left his side for so many years. Another flinch was all the reaction his words elicited, and it was like an alcohol-soaked rag being held to a sparking flint. The fire burst forth from his chest in a ravenous flame, and he slammed his fist down on the bedside table, hard enough to make two bottles on the desk at the other side of the room clink together in an admonishing chime.

"Damn it, _look_ at me, will you!" And for a second or two, he thought he had been successful, as sunken, dull, blue eyes turned to meet his. But then, like a swimmer caught in a fast-flowing river, and who could not hold onto that overhanging branch any longer, they slipped away once more. Merlin's eyes closed, as if by doing so, he could make himself invisible; go back to hiding in his cave of solitude, where only his own dark thoughts were permitted entry. But Arthur was having none of it, not this time; the time for patience and 'leave-it-for-now-to-see-what-happens' had long since expired.

"MERLIN!"

"What!" was the quiet, sand-paper-voiced reply; eyes once again open, and a slightly annoyed look turned in his direction. Merlin swallowed hard and then coughed; his throat not happy to be called upon for noise yet.

Arthur glanced across to the desk, and was pleased to see a small clay jug and cup on it. He crossed the room in two strides, filled the cup half-way and returned to his seat, where he was about to hand it over to the parched patient, when he realised Merlin was still lying down. Arthur set the cup down on the bedside table, before gently lifting Merlin up enough with one arm to wedge a spare pillow behind his back with the other. He then lowered him back down and held out the cup.

Merlin looked at it a moment, as if trying to remember what he was supposed to do with it, and then lifted a slightly trembling hand up to grasp the cup and begin its ascent to his mouth. On seeing how much the limb shook (and therefore how unlikely the cup was to make it without spilling most, if not all, of its contents), Arthur tutted, rolled his eyes, and placed his hand over the frail, cold, white one; completing the cup's trajectory. Despite the loud and desperate slurps, he only allowed the pale man a few, small sips, before forcefully withdrawing the cup, and setting it down on the bedside table.

Arthur went back to glaring at his manservant, though perhaps with a bit less ire this time, but Merlin still would not meet his gaze; preferring instead to direct his to a nondescript point somewhere, on the patched and worn blanket covering him. Arthur was beginning to wonder how long they would play this non-staring contest, when the silence was broken by a meek voice, speaking this time with a little more moisture, but no more volume.

"Thank you, sire."

Arthur couldn't help the pang of disappointment at the formal address. Couldn't they just get past this, and back to the way things used to be, with him insulting Merlin and the dark-haired man giving as good as he got? But no, things...something had changed. There was still that huge whatever-it-was that had been forming between them for some time now, and until Arthur could identify what it was, there was no way he could blast it aside. And the only person who could do that was the one sitting there now, refusing to speak unless spoken to. Well, shouted at, anyway. How ironic that Merlin should turn into the perfect servant now, and keep his opinions to himself, when that was the last thing that the King wanted him to do. He snorted cynically.

"For what: the drink, or saving your life...again?" Merlin didn't answer, but Arthur decided to continue anyway; anything to fill the awful silence. "And for both, you're welcome."

Merlin still said nothing. His gaze moved from his covers to his hands, which sat relaxed in his lap. From there, it was a logical progression to his wrists; well, the bandages, in the case of his left one. Slowly, he turned his hands over, scrutinising every inch of the white linen, but if he expected to find the evidence of his crime there, he was a few days too late. Thanks to a combination of Gwen's stitches, Gaius' poultices, and frequent re-bindings, the bleeding had long-since stopped, and the wound was already 'knitting together nicely': Gaius' words.

Suddenly, Merlin stiffened. His eyes had automatically moved further up the limbs, and he'd realised that his sleeves were rolled up to reveal the bindings on the rest of his arms. One slightly shaking hand moved up to grasp at the gathered cloth of the opposite arm, so he could self-consciously begin to unravel the sleeve. Cover the secret that no longer was.

Arthur's anger roared back to life, and his eyes narrowed coldly. "Don't bother," he said, unable to curb the bitter bite to his words. "I've seen them." Merlin's eyes flew to meet his, filled with a mixture of fear, shock and shame. Arthur couldn't have stopped the sneer that creased his features then, even if he'd wanted to, as he continued to drive the nail into his manservant's personal shield. "All of them." The two points of red on Merlin's cheeks - the first colour they'd displayed since his fever had dissipated - only served to fuel Arthur's satisfaction, despite the fact that the dark-haired man ignored him, and slowly, painstakingly, unfurled both sleeves, until the frayed cuffs rested once again over the tops of his hands.

"Why, Merlin?" Arthur said, trying desperately to cover the pleading tone in his voice with a more Kingly, commanding one. "Please, just tell me why." Okay, he failed. But now all he wanted was answers, and to hell with his image. He didn't exactly have a track record of achieving good results, with the unhappy young man, when he let image direct the questions.

For an agonisingly long pause, he thought that Merlin was going to continue his self-imposed vow of silence, but then, "You wouldn't understand," was the quiet, lumpy-throated reply.

Arthur huffed in exasperation, having to dig his nails in his palms, to stop them from digging into the shoulders of the man in front of him, and giving them a hefty shake. "No," he gritted out instead, "and I won't, unless you help me to. Talk to me. Make me!"

More silence, more frayed-cuff picking, and adam's apple bobbing and gulping fish impressions, until Arthur thought that perhaps the frail-looking man before him _was_ telling him everything he wanted - needed - to know, through some kind of strange mime act that he couldn't hope to comprehend. His own fingers burrowed into the rumpled fabric of his court trousers; a physical rebuke for the message his friend may or may not be sending, and which he couldn't decipher. But his tongue could not allow his body to do the talking for long, and he took a deep breath, opened his mouth, rearranged the words he wanted to say, then...

...a single tear rolled down his manservant's face, and the words were instantly washed back in a tide of guilt. _Did I do that?_

Arthur swallowed, his cheeks and forehead stiff with compassion and a desire to bring relief to his friend. "Please, Merlin?" A cracked whisper broke forth, unbidden.

Another tear squeezed past eyelids that had shut out the world, and trailed lazily down the anaemic face; crimped with internal pain. "I...I can't," was the equally subdued reply. Quiet enough for the King to pretend he hadn't heard it, so he could bulldoze ahead with the million and one questions that were trying to cram their way out of his mouth all at once.

"Is it me? Did I give you too much to do? I know your duties have increased tenfold since I became King, but honestly, I didn't know. If there was too much, or you needed help, then all you had to do was say so. I could have shared your tasks with another: George, perhaps," he inwardly suppressed a shudder at the thought, and on a whim, made a try for lightening the conversation with a little derisory humour. "Although, if I might say, if you think you've got it tough, try being King for a day! You have no idea of the responsibility, the weight on my shoulders, I-"

A glance at his friend's face, turned aside to hide and halt the emotions that boiled and bubbled all over his expressive face, and Arthur's speech was caged behind his teeth, while a small frown marred his forehead. Was Merlin agreeing, empathising, or hiding one of his signature smirks? Because it looked - for one second – like a ripple of irony had replaced the grief.

The King shook his head to dispel the strange thoughts. "Well, anyway, you should have said. And in that, at least, I can help. Starting from next week, or whenever you feel fit to return to duty, I'm halving your chores. There's no need for you to struggle in silence-"

He cut himself off at Merlin's sudden head shake. "No, sire, it's not that."

"Then what...don't tell me Gwaine's right then? Is it a girl? Because let me tell you now, it may seem like the end of the world, to lose your first love, but really, in the grand scheme of things-"

"No, _sire_," Merlin bit the King's sentence in half, acidly; his own fists grasping at the rough blanket, though the pain in his face seemed to disagree with his words.

Arthur thrust two hands through his messy bangs; a huff of frustration sneaking past his control. "So what _is_ it then?" he gritted out, with barely withheld exasperation. "We - the knights, Gwen, Gaius and I - we want to help you. You have no idea how much it hurt them to see what you did to yourself. Do you have any inkling how worried everyone has been about you? How close you came to..." He swallowed hard and shut his eyes, squeezing out the nightmare thoughts that had doggedly snuck back in his head again, despite him telling them how desperately abhorrent they were. It was something he knew his mind would retain for the rest of his life.

"What you did was very wrong, Merlin. It was not fair to those who care about you, especially when each and every one of them had done their utmost to help you with..." he shook his hand vaguely for want of an explanation that remained stubbornly absent, "...whatever is the matter. _You_ didn't have to watch Gwen and Gaius cry over you as you lay there...dying...with all those-" He bit his tongue, hoping the resultant pain would prevent the tears and the sob, that were waiting in the sidelines of his throat and eyes, from bursting forth. "What _were_ you... Why _would_ you... How _could_ you..."

A sob cut through his disjointed rambling, followed swiftly by an, "I'm sorry." But before Arthur could give a mollifying speech, the young man had rolled on his side, facing away from his master; shutting himself off once more.

Arthur sighed, reached a hand out to touch a jutting shoulder - to comfort or force Merlin back into the conversation, he wasn't sure - but at the last moment, his fingertips curled in on themselves; too ingrained in the habit of not allowing himself to share emotions and comfort with others. Still too afraid of displaying weakness. Oh Gods, he wished sometimes he didn't have to be King! If he could only be ordinary and free to show his feelings to others, like his subjects were. He forced the lump wistfully down in his throat and said, "Merlin-"

"Please, sire, I...I need to be alone," Merlin continued to stare towards the window, his voice therefore slightly muffled.

Arthur bit back the retort that almost fell out of his mouth: the 'like hell I will', which would have been swiftly followed by 'that's the last thing you need.' He didn't need Gwen's intuition to know that in the frame of mind his friend was in, it would have done no good. He'd tried the stern 'I'm-the-King-so-you'd-better-listen' approach. He'd then gone for the 'hey-mate-we're-all-worried-about-you' tact. Hell, he'd even given the 'if-I-make-you-feel-guilty-enough-will-you-talk' angle a go. But either he needed to work more on his humane qualities, or Merlin was being his usual, infuriatingly obstinate self. Most likely, the latter. No, definitely: _if I get any _more_ sympathetic, I'll need to have my hair braided!_

He wanted to stay angry with Merlin; to hold onto that little piece of normality, that last remaining section of the foundation that barely held his life together. Not least for fear that if he let it go, he had no way of knowing what other part of his life would come crashing down; adding to the already broken shards.

But truth be told, when he saw those wet tracks on his friend's face, the trapdoor had sprung anyway, and any hope he had of tying himself down to the familiar, reliable, typical responses he could expect from his mind and body, dribbled away; like sand through his fingers. Leaving behind only a hollow acceptance that whatever words or gestures were required to fix this, to help Merlin, he desperately lacked.

Fighting the inevitable would do neither of them any good, and could possibly worsen the damage done to the fragile remains of their friendship; sending one or both of them over the edge, into an abyss neither of them was equipped to climb back out of.

And so he stood, on slightly shaky legs, and taking awkward 'toddler' steps, he shuffled to the door, where he turned and looked back for a moment; unable to repress the small spark of hope that in those short seconds that his back was turned, something had changed for the better.

But nothing had. Merlin still faced away: asleep or ignoring him, he didn't know; and strangely enough, didn't want to find out. The one thing he did know was that his presence was neither required nor desired. And standing there, waiting for that fact to change, was starting to make his innards ache.

Drawing a long, heavy breath, into lungs that seemed reluctant to comply, Arthur held onto the door frame as he muttered over his shoulder, "We'll talk when you feel better, Merlin," before dropping his foot on the first step down from the small room. Stopping halfway, he pulled the door to a soft close, before resuming his descent to the main chamber.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N:  
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**Afternoon, my dears. Next chapter's here for your perusal...a week to the day Season 5 comes out. Wootie wootie woot woot! Anyone else excited? Silly question, I know ;O)  
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**Thank you one and all for your fantastic reviews...they really keep me going when writer's block threatens to darken my door. Oh, and CaptainOzone, you were so right about "No Way Out" by Phil Collins having the perfect lyrics for this fic :O)  
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**Disclaimer:  
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**Merlin is 100% owned by Shine, and 0% by me (but am hoping to get a kitten soon and I will call it Merlin, so then I can say - hand on heart - that I am Merlin's owner).  
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* * *

**Chapter 12**

Gaius softly closed the door to Lady Helena's chambers and heaved a weary sigh; hitching his bag of supplies further up his shoulder. This was the third time in a fortnight that the noblewoman had demanded his services, to tend to a 'medical emergency'. As with the other times, this one had turned out to be merely a minor ailment, requiring nothing more than a refill of the last jar of ointment he had given her. But honestly, if the woman would only listen to the gossipy sniggers of the scullery maids, and lose some of the excess girth she carried around with her, she wouldn't have such painful sores between her ample thighs, nor gout plaguing her swollen toes. Judging by the amount of Brawn in Peverade she had eaten, and the number of times her handmaiden had refilled her goblet, at the Lammas Day feast last week, she was putting as much faith in his advice now as she had the first time he had discreetly suggested her ladyship was perhaps 'placing too much pressure on her shoes'.

The court physician rolled his eyes again in tired exasperation of the vanity of the nobility of Camelot, which led them to believe that their ailments were so much worthier of his time than a cook suffering secondary burns from a disagreement with the temperature of the oven. Or a stable lad who had somehow managed to pick a fight with a horse sullen enough to end said spat with a kick to the boy's temple and rather nasty resultant concussion. It always galled him to be obliged to put the needs of the spoilt and pampered above that of the needy and unassuming, but such was his remit as _Court_ Physician and he was rather reliant on getting paid (something the poor could not always afford to do).

He really ought to put more effort into taking on a full-time apprentice. There was only so much of him to go around. And as dearly as he might wish it, he would not live forever; there were far fewer years ahead these days than there were behind. When Hunith's son had come bumbling and tripping into his life, he had felt a kind of selfish relief that at last he would have someone to pass on his knowledge to, and who could share the burden of bandaging battle wounds and rushing on his rounds with him. But then the odd boy had gone and landed himself another job - one he could not refuse, due to its royal patronage - and most of his time had been earmarked to polishing, horse-mucking and being a practice target. Funny how he had ended up being what he had defended Arthur's previous servant from becoming!

Of course, that had not stopped Gaius from usurping _some_ of the young man's time for his own needs. Well, the devil finds work for idle hands, as they say. He could only find the odd hour here or there to help with his mentor's chores, and spent most of the little spare time he had studying magic, rather than anatomy and medicine. But despite this, he was turning out to be a fair physician. From what Gwen and the knights had reported back to him, on their return from Longstead, Merlin had coped well under the pressure of acting physician. Even John, the village elder, had grudgingly admitted he had been wrong about the 'boy', following Gaius' agreement with Merlin's diagnosis. Having all members of his village eventually return to health - albeit under the more experienced Court Physician's hand - had undoubtedly helped in the elder's shift in perspective.

So what, in God's name, had affected his ward so badly that he had folded under its boot, and decided to forsake his destiny for the promise of a quick release? And why had he not unburdened any of his thoughts and fears with the man whose roof and meals he shared, and who had kept his secret for him since the day they had met? He certainly used to. There had been more than one occasion when Gaius had invented a last minute visit to a client, just so that he could earn a half hour break from the boy's incessant moaning about Arthur's latest reaction to a sore temper. At times, he couldn't help but sympathise with the King for having to bear his manservant's whining for so much of the day. Or at least, that was the case once.

Now he could not help but question and relive every conversation he had had in recent months, for the clues that would lead to knowledge he had been and - thanks to Merlin's so far week-long recovery - was still denied. Should he have told Arthur that it was a necklace, placed round his father's neck by his estranged sister, that was responsible for his demise, not the old sorcerer who had risked his life to try and save that of a man who would so happily take his saviour's away? Would it have stopped Merlin from throwing in his lot with Borden, if he had revealed his own embarrassing involvement with the man's nefarious schemes, the last time the deceiver had been in Camelot? How much less worn down would Merlin have been, that week he was apprenticed to George the groveller - his ward's nickname, not his - if Gaius had actually spent time coming up with a non-punishable excuse for his absence than the ubiquitous 'tavern' one that flew so traitorously to his lips?

And then of course, there was his inability to prevent Merlin's identity from becoming known, the first time he'd had to protect it under duress. He had always sworn he'd take the information to his grave...and then Merlin had nearly ended up in his. Only circumstance had intervened, by ensuring Alator's loyalties were not to the person who had hired his services. It could have so easily gone the other way; and how much trouble would they now be in, if Morgana knew who Emrys was? If, that is, they could get in much more trouble than they already were! Perhaps that was it; Merlin said he laid no blame on his mentor's head, but maybe he could not forget the betrayal as easily as his words and hugs implied?

As Gaius hurried back along the corridors, to he whom he had not meant to leave alone so long, one thing in his mind was clear. He did not know his ward as well as he should. But that was something he had every intention of remedying, as soon as the lad awoke. He would make him his favourite soup and they would sit together like old times - well, perhaps he would sit and Merlin would lie: he would no doubt be weak for a while. He would use every means at his disposal, as guardian to the most infuriating warlock there ever was, to break down those walls his precious boy had built around himself, and tear the fears and anxieties - or whatever it was that had taken away his reason for living - from his grasp. He would get his son back, or die trying. He would prove to him that he could still be trusted. That his secret was safe, and no-one else would discover it. That he would be the confidante Merlin needed him to be. He would never have to suffer in silence again. Because just as Merlin's destiny was to serve the once and future king, Gaius' was to serve him; any way that an old man could. Even if it was just to make him supper and share his woes.

Rounding a corner, Gaius drew up short with a small gasp, when he almost bumped into a familiar, black-clad figure, coming the other way. Grey-blue eyes met dark-brown and were held there, as if time itself had been suspended, to allow the battle of wills to be fought and concluded. Gaius had always felt the need to reserve his judgement about the veracity of Agravaine's devotion to Arthur. Following Ygraine's loss, the man had been very outspoken in his disdain for his brother-in-law. From his point of view, Uther had not fulfilled his duties as her primary protector and had allowed her to die at an age where she had the whole of her life ahead of her, as well as a son to accompany her on it. Some even went so far as to suggest that he blamed Uther for his wife's demise, though Gaius doubted that the man knew the full story behind the tragedy; only those directly involved did. Indeed, his animosity towards his nephew's father was such that he had not kept up much more than a cursory contact with the Pendragon family for many years. And yet here he was, slinking into the upper levels of the chain of command, like a black spider; waiting in dark and dirty corners to leap out and strike its prey, should they so much as drop their guard an inch.

And he fitted the role of concerned and more experienced relative to the King so well that for a while, Gaius had had reason to doubt his initial, prejudiced impression of the newly-returned Lord. No longer. He might have been able to dismiss his misgivings over Agravaine's intent, when the noble had queried him over his knowledge of Merlin's alter ego, or when he had counselled the King to go to war with Caerleon, to strengthen the young man's image as Uther's replacement. And there was no hard proof that it was he who had placed the deadly pendant around his brother-in-law's neck, or who had betrayed Arthur's secret route through the Valley of the Fallen Kings to those who wished him harm (and who did harm his own ward). But no amount of denial and justification could cover the fact that it was Agravaine who had encouraged the King to question the Court Physician's loyalties, had grilled him like an already-convicted criminal, and then aided his kidnappers in his removal from Camelot and torture for his secrets. He may not have seen the man through the delirious haze of his fatigue and pain, but he had heard the deep timbre of his voice echoing alongside Morgana's, in the depths of his tormentous prison.

So it was with a wariness grown to new heights that he returned the dark Lord's gaze, and permitted himself to deliver only the slightest of nods for courtesy's sake. What gave him pause, though, was the wide and self-assured smirk that ripped across the man's face, along with the firmly spoken, "Gaius," that proceeded it. Ever since the physician's rescue and return to the castle, the King's Uncle had been - as far as he was able - avoiding him. If they did happen to pass by the same stretch of corridor, or were compelled - in their capacity as members of the council - to occupy the same room, the noble would duck his head and/or hurry past. He certainly would not linger for a game of eyeball jeu de paume, and only allowed something that more closely resembled a pained grimace than a smile to cross his features.

Gaius therefore could not help but stop and stare after the coal-haired man, as he swept past him and continued down the hallway, with a distinct swagger to his stride. What was he doing walking the halls of Camelot at this time of day anyway? Wasn't he supposed to be in today's council meeting with Arthur? Had the meeting adjourned early or had the Lord eschewed it on this occasion, to pursue some shady mission of his own? Was he not on such a tight schedule, the physician had half a mind to take a leaf out of Merlin's book, and follow the conniving cad. Well someone had to fill the young man's shoes while he was incapacitated. And until such time as he had irrefutable proof - that yet another family member was betraying him - to bring before the King, all they could do was watch and wait for that first and last mistake to be made.

But no, now was not a good time. He had somewhere else to be, and someone he actually cared about this time to attend to. And so with a purse of his lips and small shake of his head, Gaius carried on the way he had been headed.

* * *

As Gaius ascended the last of the steps leading up to his chambers, he mentally added to the tally of potions he had at the ready, in order to calculate when he would need to brew some more for when Merlin's need arose. Although his supply of fennel was looking rather lower than it had a week ago, thankfully - with his ward's fever finally gone - the requirement for that had gone away. He had plenty of mint and yarrow - thanks to Gwen' kind offer to take a trip to the woods to pick some for him yesterday - but now, thanks to the twice-daily dosages to help Merlin to replace the blood he had lost and heal his many wounds, he was almost completely out of calendula.

Thankfully, it was the best time of year to harvest the yellow flowers - it was only a small mercy, but he could at least be grateful Merlin had not chosen the winter to do what he had done - though Gaius hated to impose further on Gwen. She had already done so much to help him over the last few days - help Merlin, really, if he was truly honest with himself. The girl had one of the kindest hearts he had ever encountered, and genuinely cared for and wanted to help almost anyone she met. But the physician would be kidding himself if he thought she would have spent so much time at or running to and from his chambers in the last seven days, if she was not so concerned for her friend. If only he knew just how much his friends had done for him recently; how much they wanted to be a part of the healing process, and how scared they had been that they had almost been too late to do anything other than mourn him.

_Silly boy_, he tutted fondly to himself, as he reached for the handle on the oak door and opened it.

"Gaius!"

The old physician swore his feet had completely left the floor, with the shock of hearing the familiar - though unexpected - voice call out, as he stepped over the threshold to his quarters. Looking up, he caught the apologetic, yet slightly grim smile the King gave him from where he stood, in the centre of the room.

Gaius returned the smile with a small one of his own, as he came the rest of the way into the room and closed the door behind him. He turned to the nearest table and dropped his medical bag on the untidy surface, where it landed with a quiet clink of glass on glass, as the remedies inside struck each other. Looking back up at the blond man before him, he said, "Is there something I can do for you, sire?" trying to keep the impatience out of his voice, after his unforeseen call-out earlier that had also interfered with his need to check on his ward.

"Um...no...I..." The unusually flustered tone in the young man's voice caused the physician to frown and scrutinise his face more closely. He certainly looked a little paler than normal, and had dark shadows under his eyes, though both symptoms had become a permanent fixture over the past seven days, so weren't anything to be overly concerned about. However, the way he gnawed at his cheek; his brow furrowed in deep - and rather disturbed - thought, and how his eyes darted at least once to the door at the top of the steps behind him, gave rise to small ball of acid to sprout and churn in Gaius' stomach.

"Sire, what's wrong?" he said, his mouth suddenly dry. The King's eyes flicked once more to his servant's door, and the ball of acid in Gaius' belly grew larger and rolled faster; his eyes instinctively drawn to the same place as the younger man's. "Is something the matter with Merlin, sire?"

"Arthur," the King murmured distractedly.

"I'm sorry?" Gaius gave him a confused frown, thrown by the change of subject and question left hanging.

"You used to call me 'Arthur'."

The King's eyes travelled up, from where he had been staring at something insignificant in the middle distance, to meet his old friend's eyes, and Gaius was shocked at the sorrow and pain he saw in the watery blue depths. But before he could repeat his question more forcefully, or show any acknowledgement of the young man's obviously despondent mood, the King continued.

"And no, there's nothing wrong: with Merlin, I mean. I...he's awake and-"

"He's awake?" the physician interrupted, instantly alert, and taking a step forwards; his body poised to do something he knew he shouldn't at his age: leap up the steps and burst through the door at the top. But instead, he fuelled his childish impulse into his urgency to gather more information, to aid his ward's waking needs. "How long? Is he in pain? Did he say anything?" he fired out, without even pausing for breath.

Arthur's eyes widened and he raised his hands, as if to ward off the abrupt bombardment of questions. "Whoa, whoa, one at a time, Gaius." He took a deep, calming breath and let it all out again before continuing. "About half an hour. I don't know. And too little for my liking."

"Come again, S...Arthur?" Gaius' mouth hung a little open and his eyebrows formed a 'V' where they met above his nose in confusion.

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose, massaging the thin flesh there as he let out a sigh too long and weary for one so short in years. Releasing his nose, he took a step back towards the pillar behind him and leaned against it; folding his arms slowly before raising his eyes again to meet the old man's. "He woke up about half an hour ago. He was thirsty, so I gave him a drink, but I'm not sure if he's in pain. He didn't say as such." Arthur rolled his eyes. "Well, he didn't say much of anything."

Gaius tutted and glanced back at the little arched door at the back of the room, with a frustrated sigh. "I'd better go and check on him, Sire," tut "sorry: Arthur."

The king unfolded his arms and waved one in front of him, a small smile pulling at his lips as he dismissed the apology, only made necessary by force of habit. He took a step away from his leaning post and pulled his jerkin down, watching as Gaius made his way to the stairs he had only a short while ago come down himself. He began to take slow steps towards the exit, as if reluctant to 'hand the torch' over to another; even if the 'other' may have a higher claim on his friend's regard than he did. Just as he reached out to the handle, he paused - hand floating in mid-air - as he came to a decision. Turning only his head to address the man, he called back over his shoulder, "Just to let you know, Gaius, I will be posting a guard outside your chambers."

Gaius turned around to face his King, his mouth pinched with suppressed indignation. This wasn't the first time he had had his privacy compromised, and he could live with the inconvenience. But those other times, it had been Uther who had ordered his rooms watched; and for almost understandable reasons, given the man's paranoia for sorcerers and their 'wily ways'. He found it hard to swallow that the son would stoop to the same mistrustful treatment of an old friend. The physician brought one gnarled hand to rest over the top of the other, in front of his belly; all familiarity dropped in favour of his courtly, subservient pose.

Half glaring at the King, he said "May I ask how long for, Sire?" And he couldn't help the feeling of satisfaction at the flush of red that blossomed in the younger man's cheeks.

Arthur, now holding onto the handle of the door, as if readying a hasty retreat from the physician's admonishing stare, couldn't hide the pained look that flashed across his face, as he said in a voice rough with suppressed emotion, "Until I can be sure he won't do it again." And before he could be bombarded with further questions or excuses, the King swung the door open and stepped through; closing it behind him with a soft clunk.

* * *

When Gaius cautiously entered his ward's room, he saw that Merlin was lying on his side in the bed; facing the window. For a moment, he wondered if the young man had fallen asleep again, but then recalled how well the warlock could play at being asleep, to avoid physical examinations and nasty tasting medicine, and so he took another step towards the cot, calling out quietly, "Merlin."

There was no answer from the bed's occupant, but that did not deter the old man. Having had his fair share of keeping a vigil at sleeping patients' sides, while he waited to see the results of his medicinal administrations, he knew the breathing pattern of the unconscious. And Merlin's was certainly not it.

"Merlin." A little louder and sterner this time; hoping to produce a physical response, if a verbal one was still denied. _So, the gentle, paternal approach is not going to work?_ In that case, he would have to settle for 'court physician who has the sway to command Kings to obey, as far as their bodily needs were concerned'.

Stepping right up to the side of the cot, Gaius folded his arms, and in his best 'do as you're told, or else...' voice, he said, "Please turn over, Merlin; I need to check on your bandages."

After a pregnant pause, a long, thin exhalation of air floated towards the outer wall, and then very slowly, the dark-haired man rolled over to face the ceiling; his hands left limp at his sides.

At the sight of his ward's reddened eyes and drawn cheeks, Gaius felt his heart clench. But he knew better than to ask outright why the warlock had been crying, for Merlin would clamp down on the truth like a vice; unwilling to burden those he cared so much more for than himself. So instead, he allowed the growing silence to do its job of drawing out noise to fill it, while he got on with his. As he checked his patient's temperature and pulse - both at acceptable levels to not cause undue concern - his eyes unwittingly kept flitting back to his young charge's own; hoping for some kind of acknowledgement. But as he moved on to pushing up blue sleeves on listless arms, in order to unravel the white linen there, his heart sank further and further into his stomach. Merlin's eyes remained focused straight ahead, as if his consciousness had vacated him, leaving behind only an empty shell. Were it not for the flutter of life the physician's wrinkled fingers could feel, just beneath the flesh he held, he would have assumed that his boy had taken a turn for the worse and gone where he had tried to force himself to a week ago.

The majority of the cuts on the pale arms were in the latter stages of healing, and those that weren't were definitely on the way. The physician therefore believed it was time to leave them open to the benefits of fresh air - well, as fresh as it got, being cooped up in the tiny room. All that was required was a little ointment to speed the process and prevent infection in the less sealed wounds. Taking the unravelled bandages with him to be washed and put away for future use, Gaius went back to the main room to seek out the medication.

On returning to the room, he saw that Merlin had not moved; his arms still left where his mentor had placed them and his eyes still staring upwards. The old man wondered for a moment what was so interesting up there to hold the young man's gaze for so long, and - perhaps more disturbingly - whether he had even blinked the whole time his guardian had been gone from the room.

Huffing a small sigh from his nostrils, the physician crossed the small space and commanded protesting knees to bend so that he could perch on the side of the bed. Even then, Merlin did not move or seem to notice his presence. As Gaius gently began to anoint the cuts with the pungent salve, he stoically attempted to catch his ward's attention. By the time he had finished and was resealing the jar, he was beginning to entertain the alarming thought that perhaps Merlin had left his mind behind, wherever he had been for the last seven days, and that there was therefore nothing in the body before him to communicate with. But then he recalled that Arthur had at least had _some_ words from his servant, though judging by the King's face as well as his ward's, the conversation they'd had, had not been fruitful for either participant.

Wiping his hands on a small rag he had brought with him for the purpose, Gaius decided to take the bull by the horns. "I see Arthur came to pay you a visit," he said, and was heartened by the small flinch in the young man's cheek at the break in silence: a response was a response, however subtle it was. He decided to push onwards. "He's become quite the physician's assistant over the past few days; helping me take care of you. I might have offered him the job, if he wasn't already up to his knees running the kingdom." The Physician paused and licked his lips, trying not to be discouraged by the lack of a snide retort or even a derisive snort from the bed. "Gwen too. She hardly left your side the first few days after... I had to threaten her with a sleeping draught to get her to leave so she could rest. Perhaps if I'd asked her to clean the leech tank, she would have left sooner, and then _I_ would have had more sleep!"

Gaius huffed a short chuckle, but the small smile did not live long on his face, and the old man sighed wearily. "Are you going to tell me what is on your mind, or are you going to keep your thoughts between you and the ceiling?"

Merlin's brow puckered an infinitesimal amount, before straightening out again, and Gaius' intestines unravelled another couple of inches at the tiny, but not-to-be-sneered-at, triumph.

"I think we're past the stage of denying that anything's wrong, don't you?" Gaius continued; resisting the urge to patronise his charge with great difficulty, in light of his stubborn insistence in not answering, when it was obvious there was nothing wrong with his hearing.

Gaius was beginning to wonder whether he should continue staring at his ward's still face, or whether he would make a better connection with him if he too stared at that damp stain on the ceiling. He reached out and grasped a cool, unresisting hand between his two, slightly greasy, gnarled ones; squeezing hard. Trying to communicate - where words were failing him - how scared he had been last week. How sorrowful that he had not been there to prevent what happened. How guilty he had felt that he had not tried harder to draw his 'son' out of himself beforehand. How tense the last few days had been, as he had watched and prayed, to whatever Gods might grant him succour, to prevent his boy from crossing over to where even he - with all his wisdom and experience - could not bring him back. And how glad he was, now, that he had been granted a second chance at keeping him there. To hold his hand and listen to the tales of his deeds of the day. To laugh together at their friends' dalliances. To put his arms around his silly yet wise, fragile yet strong, complicated yet guileless boy and feel how much better his life was each day that he had him to come home to than he had been when he was rattling around in his vacuous chambers; alone.

Gaius could feel the pressure building behind his eyes and a lump swelling in his chest, as he battled to rein in the emotions he didn't want to overwhelm Merlin with. No need to add to the guilt he was undoubtedly feeling. As all who try to go before it's there time do, when they know that their action caused pain to others. He'd had enough experience of watching other relatives sit by the sides of loved ones they'd nearly lost this way, over his long career, to see the unavoidable patterns. Now, he needed him to talk, to share with someone who loved him - more than he'd known it was possible, before the young man came stumbling into his life - the 'whys' that everyone craved.

"Please, Merlin," and his voice betrayed him with its roughness and cracks. The old man swallowed hard when he felt a small, answering squeeze from the hand he held, and he moved to lightly stroke the back of it, in what he hoped was an encouraging and understanding gesture; a reminder that he was there and was on the warlock's side. "You don't need to suffer alone, my boy, you know that, don't you?"

But his heart plummeted back down the flight of stairs it had just climbed, when the young man squeezed his eyes shut and pushed out a large tear from each corner. They swelled there and teetered on the brink, before tumbling over his cheeks and falling to the blanket beneath.

"Oh, my boy," was all the physician could say, before he gently tugged on the hand he held; thrusting it behind him until Merlin's upper body was far enough off the bed for the old man to throw his arms around the bony shoulders. He tried to ignore the sound of sobbing in his right ear and the feel of wetness on the shoulder of his robe, as he held the weak body to his chest and gently squeezed; and if his own cries and tears joined the fray, he felt no shame.

Merlin was the first to pull out of the embrace, with a loud sniff and a slight tremble of the hand - he carelessly used the back of - to wipe the salt water and mucus from his face. Gaius' hands fell back down to his lap - redundant, for the moment - and he picked up the rag he had left there; using it to wipe his own nose and eyes. He looked back at the figure sitting slightly hunched before him, and chewed his lip in remonstration at the reticence that was still there, like an impenetrable wall between them.

"You need to get whatever it is off your chest, Merlin," he said throatily. At the small frown and shake of dark, bed-messed hair, he reached out and gently clasped the young man's upper arm; mindful of the still-healing lacerations there. When the warlock flinched back, away from his touch, he couldn't be sure if it was from pain or rejection, but he withdrew his hand slowly; resting it on his own knee instead. "Please, Merlin, you need to talk if you are to heal. And you know I'm here for you; to listen," he implored with his mouth and eyes; helplessly reflecting the hurt he saw in the other and wanting - like any good physician - to diagnose, to soothe and to heal the hurt.

Another head shake; this one more vigorous with denial, and a small voice spilled forth at last, almost making the elderly man jump back for its forgotten sound. "I...I can't, Gaius, I'm sorry." And when his guardian opened his mouth to issue a challenge, blue eyes suddenly rose to seize his own; unblinkingly, beseechingly and the words died on his larynx. "Please, don't make me, Gaius; not this time, please."

And so what could he do but obey the heartfelt plea; even when it went against every instinct he had as a physician and a foster father. He could not bring more hurt to one he loved. Could not override the pain with an obstinate and dispassionate hand, even though it meant there would be no relief from his own discomfort that ignorance of his own - or anyone else's - part in the unspeakable deed brought. He _could_ wait; for Merlin, he _would_ wait. With the patience brought from years of brewing complicated and delicate potions over hours or days, he would wait. From sitting and looking at the door or the window, and counting the sunrises until his ward returned from a patrol, hunt or quest, he could endure. Just as he had been counting the years as they went by, and his hair grew thinner, his body more bent, while he waited for the day that Albion was created and magic - his people - would be free. Only then could atone for all the wrongs he did, when he stood by and watched too many burned at the stake and split in two by an axe, while he lived and regretted.

Gaius coerced his mouth into an understanding smile, daring to hope it would be returned, but letting it drop - a little disappointed, though not overly surprised - when all he got back was a momentary twitch of the lips.

Then Merlin's gaze slipped back down to the blanket he was absentmindedly picking at, and without looking up again, he half-whispered, "I'm tired, Gaius."

Gaius wondered whether there was more to that statement than merely fatigue, but he answered, automatically, "Then sleep, my boy. You need to regain your strength." He rose on complaining legs, and collecting the rag and jar, he headed for the door, where he began to descend the stairs. He marvelled, as he stepped carefully and methodically, at how much easier this used to be - only a scant few years ago - when Merlin had come; and together they had cleared out the junk in the room to make space for a person to live in it.

Turning back, halfway down, to see his ward lying back and pulling the blanket to his chin, Gaius said, "I'll be back later with some broth, Merlin," to which he neither expected nor got a reply. With another grim exhalation, and little shake of his wispy-hair, the warlock's guardian pulled the door to; making a silent vow that he would try to get him to open up again later, when his ward's sleep and hunger requirements had been satisfied.


	13. Chapter 13

**A/N:  
**

**Okay, hands up who's excited about season 5? Silly question, eh? So, I was hoping to have this chapter ready before Saturday, and thankfully, it was a lot easier to write than I thought it would be (with my thoughts on October 6th and planning my daughter's 6th birthday party for next month...ooh synchronicity, LOL). Anyway, enough with the babbling...  
**

**Disclaimer: I Don't Own Merlin (though I own up to wanting to)  
**

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**Chapter 13**

Merlin watched in detached fascination as the drops of rain hit the panes of his window, pooled into larger globules, and then cascaded down the glass. It was the first rain the city had seen for more than two weeks now, and to most, its return was welcome, for the last bit of aid it would give to the crops before harvesting began. Though the downpour had rendered the streets mostly quiet, there were still those who had no choice but to go out in it to complete their chores and errands, and the young warlock idly watched the occasional figure in the distance, as they darted their way to their destination, from one awning to another; the servant, townsperson or guard struggling to maintain a state of dryness for as long as possible.

Merlin had always liked the rain. Well, watching it, anyway; being in it was a different matter. It was a reminder of how life flowed; endlessly round in circles with no beginning or end. It just...was. Nothing could beat the feel of the sun warming his skin - especially after a hard winter, when he and his mother had often struggled to get through each night without freezing to death, and they had sometimes gone days without food. But then he also welcomed the feeling of renewal and cleansing when the heavens opened; washing away the dirt and the smells and swelling Ealdor's dwindling stream. The rain also reminded him of Will, and the childish dreams of their future that they had shared, in the shelter of a hollowed out tree, whilst they waited for the heavy rain they had been caught in to pass. So many years ago and so different from the way their futures had actually panned out. Will had never quite made it to becoming a soldier; needing to stay and help feed his family, after his father's death, rather than running off to find glory in warfare. And Merlin wondered now and then what he would have been doing, if he had been part of a gleeman's troupe of performers, as his seven-year-old self had idolised. Being shouted at for dropping his juggling balls again or having to sharpen the knife-thrower's blades, most likely!

Running a hand through his unruly hair, Merlin's eyes were automatically drawn to the permanent reminder of what he had tried and failed to do two weeks ago. He absentmindedly thumbed the pink, puckered skin on his left wrist, following the hardened and lumpy edges of the half-healed flesh and suppressing the tiny little shivers that ran up his arm and down his back, when the corner of his nail caught at a slightly more sensitive spot and stretched it. Gaius had only taken the stitches out that morning, having announced, after his daily examination of Merlin's scars, that they had completed their job of holding the flesh together (until it would not be parted again), and now it needed to breathe and dry out.

It filled him with shame to think that so many people had been witness to it. Not that anyone ever mentioned the wound in conversation; too afraid as they were to focus on the morbidity that had led him so far as to create it. But he had seen the way their eyes darted to it periodically, when they thought he wasn't looking, as if needing to acclimatise their minds to its goriness, in order to overcome their discomfort of his act. He had even caught Gwen wrinkling her nose momentarily, when she spied his then-still-bandaged wrist, as the sleeve dropped from his hand; raised to rub sleep from just-woken eyes. Noticing her scrutiny, he had hastily lowered his hand back to the bed; allowing the material to blot out his stigma. Not even the small flush of red to his friend's cheeks had been enough to relieve him of the embarrassment that had clenched at his innards, as she launched into another pointless round of castle gossip.

Funny how everyone who visited him had felt the need to fill the silence that permanently hung in the small space he was confined to; like a thick mist - snarled in a gorge - that even by the warmest noonday sun could not lift. With Gwen, it was with tales of the liaisons of the kitchen maids and laundry girls, or the latest method that grovelling George had discovered to cause Arthur to rant and rail behind his replacement servant's back. Whilst Gwaine's chats mainly consisted of two subjects. Either Percival's latest conquest, in his unofficial arm-wrestling championship of the lower town's taverns. Or the many times in the last week Gwaine had received a tankard of ale, in the establishment Percival had been competing at, with no greater payment than a saucy wink or rakish smile; compliments of the youngest, least jaded barmaid. Even Leon had dropped by to fill him in on the leader board of sparring partnerships during training that Merlin was unable to witness first hand.

There seemed no shortage of volunteers who were willing to keep his thoughts on the mundane and every day, and away from contemplating the darkness that they feared still hung about him, like smoke from a wet log-fuelled fire. At first, of course, they had all - surreptitiously - tried to wheedle out of him what had led to the deed they would not name; like the act a youth is caught in by his mother, as he explores body parts best kept hidden for the amusement of his trousers and future wife.

Surprisingly, the most persistent of all had been the King. He had returned, as promised, to quiz his servant further on the cause of his erstwhile misery, and he had tried every method possible in his attempt. Merlin had become his latest quest, and like a dog with a particularly juicy bone, Arthur was determined to not let go. But the only results of his pleas, briberies, blackmails, orders and angry hand gesticulations had been tight-lipped sighs and head shakes. Arthur's last 'attack' had been three days ago, and since Merlin had not seen him since, he could only conclude - with a mixture of amazement and profound relief - that for the first time ever, Arthur had abandoned a self-imposed crusade.

If he had been so inclined, the warlock would have to admit that he had been tempted - more than once - to let out at least some of the thoughts and feelings that roiled inside him. If for no other reason than to shut them up. Plus, some part of his psyche had a rather masochistic urge to see the sympathetic faces, he had grown so tired of seeing, wiped clean by the horror his secrets would have revealed. But there was always that small voice, at the back of his head, that told him the burden was - and should forever be - his alone to bear. What would talking about it achieve, anyway? It would not erase what he had done, and what they had seen, from their memories. Wouldn't make them feel and act less awkwardly around him, like he was made of the most delicate crystal and could shatter at any second. He would still be ridden with guilt for the pain he still saw in their eyes - in their unguarded moments - as a conversational topic came to an end and a new one eluded them; and which he had caused. And it most certainly would not change what he had set his mind on doing, from the moment he had woken and saw a familiar ceiling and an angry Arthur glaring back at him.

Thankfully, for the first time in what seemed like weeks, he had been allowed to enjoy the relative peace and quiet of his own thoughts for more than just a few minutes. Gaius was out doing his rounds, content that the guard Arthur had posted would ensure his ward would not leave unescorted. His guardian had also taken the precautionary measure of clearing out any 'dangerous' items in his chambers that he did not want Merlin left alone with. The room was therefore utterly devoid of any signs of cutting implements, rope, poisons and anything else the physician deemed 'tempted fate'. Not that Merlin would do anything like that here. It wouldn't feel right to sully his mentor's rooms in that way.

_"Merlin!"_

_Oh no, he's back! _Merlin pressed his fingers to his temples, and massaged slow circles there, in the hope of heading off the headache that he knew would soon plague him at having to suppress that voice again.

For the last week or so, the dragon had been relentless in his attempts at getting more than a "Go away, Kilgharrah!" from the last dragonlord. When the creature had still lived under the castle, Merlin had become quite adept at ignoring his summons, until he was good and ready to reply. Well, no sense in inflating the dragon's ego any more than it already was! And if he didn't always come when the King - then Prince - summoned him, why should he do so when an overgrown lizard did? It took practice, and a great deal of concentration, to reduce the ancient, loud 'voice' to a mere background buzz that he could more easily blot out in his head. The method he had found best, was to recite over and over the words of the old religion, or some other forgotten language Gaius had made him learn, to aid him in his duties as Physician's assistant as well as to be a second pair of eyes when research was required in one of the library's oldest tomes.

This time, though, the beast seemed particularly insistent in his 'cries', and it was becoming harder and harder for Merlin to block without making his head pulse, like one of Gaius' vials had been lodged inside it and was being repeatedly shattered and then reformed to explode again into the soft tissue of his brain.

_"Merlin, I know you can hear me."_

_NO. I. CAN'T!...la la la la la. _Merlin put his hands over his ears, even though he knew the gesture was futile, when the sound was emanating from inside his skull, not outside it._ Tolle oculis rana quod appensum est saltem triginta dies...arrghhh! Why can't that bloody dragon leave me alone?! Probably just wants to throw words at me like 'destiny' and 'duty' and 'patience' and make me feel this big, _Merlin imagined something along the lines of the length of his big toe,_ for questioning him and ignoring his advice again. Gods, when will I EVER be free?_

Suddenly, the room felt uncomfortably small and confining, and Merlin wished he had managed to master the art of teleporting himself, as he had seen other magic-wielders do. He had tried numerous times to transport himself with magic; having found the elusive spell in one of the dusty, forgotten books in the secret room of the library, where he had accidentally released a goblin once. But the most he had succeeded in doing was causing nearby crockery to explode, and if that was how his body was going to end up if he pursued his attempts, then no thanks! The traditional methods of moving from point A to point B - involving his or a horse's legs - would suffice. And he didn't want to give the King any further reason to shout at him if, all of a sudden, part of his castle disappeared or disintegrated; due to his servant's inability to do what Mary Collins, Morgause and Morgana had grasped so easily. _My name begins with 'M' as well; doesn't that account for anything? Or maybe it's because I'm not a girl?_

_I beg to differ!_ his imaginary 'Arthur' voice retorted with a sneer.

No, nothing for it; he would have to use the door, like everyone else, and before Gaius got back and started fussing over why he had not eaten all the lunch he had left him, and how was he feeling, and maybe today he would feel like telling him what was on his mind, while he prepared dinner. _No no no no no, I've had quite enough of THAT, thank you. Time to go...go and...be somewhere else. Not here, where everyone knows where to find me. And they all look at me like I'm a specimen they found under a rock that needs many hours of intense studying to understand. Don't they know how rude it is to stare? Did their mothers never teach them good manners?_

Merlin got down from the windowsill and jerked legs that were numb from lack of movement for such a long time. Up until now, he had not been motivated to set foot out of the door, having taken a while to recover his strength, and having been told by Arthur that his services would not be required, until Gaius deemed him fit to return to work. Thanks to Gaius' almost force-fed meals, and disgusting-tasting tonics to enhance blood replacement, at least enough of his former energy had returned to allow him to leave his bed and stay upright for lengthy periods.

He raked slightly trembling hands through his hair, while he looked about the messy chamber. Gaius had gently admonished him for getting it in that state, so soon upon being up and about again, but since he was still treading on eggshells around his ward's uncertain mood, he did not push the point far enough for Merlin to do anything about it. Spotting his jacket hanging off the end of his unmade bed, he strode across, picked it up and thrust his arms through the sleeves, before hurrying out the room into the larger one beyond. Looking around, he was relieved to see that it was still devoid of his mentor, and he rushed over to the small cupboard beneath the stone steps that lead up to the overhead space where Gaius kept the less-frequently used of his many books.

It had taken him quite some time searching - as much as he could glean from the too short and few periods when he was left alone during his recovery - but eventually, he had found what he was after. It was in the last place he had looked, as all things that one desperately needs to find usually are. Thankfully, Gaius had sealed the cupboard with no more than a large padlock. If he thought about it, it was a bit insulting, really, as if his guardian believed such a thing could stop him from getting what he wanted.

"Ætýne hæftinge."

He had not used his magic for a while now. The words left a bitter taste in his mouth and a grimace on his face, like one of Gaius' vilest concoctions; not just for the act of breaking into his guardian's furniture, but for having to use magic to do so. Even the sensation of it coursing through his veins, which would usually fill him with a comforting warmth, felt strange and alien; like lice crawling out of his clothes to bite at his skin and feast on his blood. The lock opened with a soft click, and the doors of the little cabinet swung free with a high pitched squeak. Merlin looked over his shoulder nervously, as if the sound - seemingly loud due to the hush of the room - would immediately draw someone from outside to ask awkward questions. Seeing that there was, of course, no-one there, (_honestly, I'm getting as paranoid as _they_ are!_) he reached in and grasped what he had sought; hefting it in his hand before thrusting it into his inner jacket pocket.

_Time time, there is no time. Need to hurry; someone could come in any moment._ Closing the doors of the cupboard again, he rose up and strode across to the door of the chambers and slowly turned the handle. There was an art to doing it, thanks to the court physician's insistence that the latch remain ungreased, and therefore act as an audible summons for him to tend to whomever was about to demand his expertise. After years of night-time sneaking, however, Merlin felt he had become a bit of an expert, and the door uttered not a single sound as he pushed it open a crack. Placing an eyeball to the slit of an opening, he saw the rather bored-looking guard leaning up against the opposite wall and gazing down the corridor at something Merlin couldn't see, but which was obviously more interesting than looking at a door that hadn't moved in a couple of hours. _Perfect!_

"Swefe nu."

The words blew out between the door and jamb, like a chill wind ruffling the last leaves clinging stubbornly to winter trees, and the guard slumped down to the ground; the wall at his back easing his passage. Opening the door just wide enough to stick his head through the gap, Merlin ensured the corridor was empty before easing the rest of him out of his prison of the last two weeks, and as inaudibly as possible, shut the door behind him.

Sparing no more than a moment or two to check that the man had not injured himself in his unexpected journey to unconsciousness, Merlin, satisfied that the innocent - if ineffectual (_weren't they all?_) - guard was sleeping peacefully, headed for the least-used servant's passage to the outside.

* * *

**Spells:**

Ætýne hæftinge - Open lock

Swefe nu - Sleep


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N:  
**

**So, how cool was that first episode of season 5! I won't spoil it for any of you poor people who have not been able to see it yet, except to say WOW!  
**

**Anyway, thank you again to everyone who has followed, favourited and reviewed this fic so far...you are all lovely, fluffy individuals who deserve a space at the round table.  
**

**Hope this next chapter's better than a smack around the head with Arthur's boot :O)  
**

**Disclaimer:  
**

**If I owned Merlin, I would ensure it was broadcast around the world on the same day, so none of you gorgeous people would have to wait. Sorry to disappoint you, but Shine got there first :O(  
**

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**Chapter 14**

By the time Gaius made it back to the shelter of the castle's covered walkways, he was thoroughly soaked and eager to change into some dry robes. His aching knees and hips were crying out for a long rest and a steaming cup of tea (or something more medicinal). Planting himself by a warm fire for - hopefully - the rest of the afternoon and evening would also not be amiss. He could have taken up the offer made by the mother of the family he had just been visiting, and had some tea in the warmth - and relative dryness - of their humble home. But besides not wishing to inconvenience a family, whose father was very sick and who had three small children to feed and clothe, he had been anxious not to leave his ward alone any longer than necessary.

Though Merlin was physically making good progress from his injuries, the old physician still held some reservations about the health of the young man's mind. There had been no more tearful sessions, since the first time Gaius had held him in his arms, following his awakening. In fact the young man vehemently refused to share the woes that the physician could see were still burdening his heart. And it worried him infinitely more than any loud or briny outpourings of grief, anger or remorse could ever do. Not that Merlin did not do his best to appear to be mentally on the mend as well. His face was stoically kept frown-free. The small sighs - whether from sorrow or boredom - were suppressed into mere puffs of air; easily dismissed as enthusiastic exhalations. And he ate; albeit begrudgingly, and less than the physician would have liked. He even - once or twice (blink, and you'd miss it) - returned a miniature version of a smile slung his way, by one of the many friends who had not relented in their desire to keep him company and lift his spirits.

Maybe _they_ had bought the young man's thin veil of reassurance; they had at least said nothing to the contrary. But his guardian did not. Wise that he was to the warlock's cunning at keeping his true thoughts at bay. Of course, it could just be that he was getting paranoid in his old age, and after all the near disasters Merlin had put him through; in the relatively few years he had been at Camelot. But as the closest thing the young man had ever had to a father, Gaius felt he was entitled to worry a bit. If for no other reason than to be a substitute for Hunith. And she would doubtless never forgive him if he missed those little signs only family would notice. It was possible all Merlin needed was time, and a little - gentle - persistence from those who more obviously cared (and hadn't just come a calling to satisfy morbid curiosity over the latest subject of gossip amongst servants). Near death experiences brought on such a delicate imbalance in the humours of all involved, it was hard to know how best to reinstate their stability.

Fresh air. That's what the lad needed now. Too much time cooped up in a small space - however frequently the company changed - did no-one much good. He would have a word with Arthur; see if maybe he could be persuaded to remove the guard from his door, and allow Merlin to return to his duties - light ones, of course, until his he was up to full strength. Perhaps a month of good dinners, reminiscing of happier times, and exhaustion brought on by physical labour would set him back on the right path again. For the next few minutes, until he came face to face with his puzzle of a ward, the guardian could at least delude himself thusly.

Halfway up the steps to his chambers, Gaius came to a sudden stop; his sodden clothes taking the opportunity to start forming a small puddle beneath him. Something wasn't right; he could feel it in his bones. Taking another, cautious step up, Gaius' gaze was caught by what looked like a hand, resting on the floor outside his room. Yes, that was definitely out of the ordinary; hands didn't normally reach that far down, and were usually more animated. His heart starting to beat uncomfortably fast, the old physician hurried up the last of the steps, to see what was - preferably still - attached to the hand, and he came to a standstill, mouth gaping open and eyebrows raised, at the sight of the guard, lying against the wall.

Automatically putting his 'physician's cap' on, Gaius crouched down, wincing a little at the cracks and pops of his joints, and put a hand out to check for life signs. Breathing a small sigh of relief that the man was merely unconscious, not a corpse, and appeared to have no injuries that might have caused the state he was in, Gaius looked around for further evidence; finding only the man's halberd - dropped during his descent to the ground.

"Wake up, son." In the absence of a name to call them by, all men of no title, who were younger than the physician, gained that designation. A quick shake of the guard's shoulder elicited no response either. _Drunk? He doesn't smell of alcohol. Very strange._

Gaius stood back up. He would need to move the man into his chambers, until he came round. But lugging an unconscious man girt in full guard's attire would be nigh on impossible for a man of his age, so instead, he turned round, opened the door at his back and stepped in the room.

"Merlin!" he called loudly, seeing the main room unoccupied and his ward's door shut. A sudden pang of guilt, that the young man may be asleep, plagued him, though only for a moment or two. He had spent plenty of time over the last week - having nothing better to do, when he was not being talked to - sleeping. And there was no-one else around to help Gaius move the guard. Needs must!

"Merlin!" he called again, as he strode towards the closed door. He threw it open, in a fair imitation of the King on a manservant hunt, and stepped into the room. In an instant, he took in the ever-present mess, unmade bed, only-partially eaten lunch (_tsk, foolish boy!_) and...no Merlin. His heart and stomach were reunited again in shared anxiety, while his mind hurriedly began to assemble a clearer picture from the pieces he had picked up so far.

"Oh no!" he whispered to the empty room. _Where did he go? When did he leave? This can't be good! _It was impossible to tell if anything from the untidy room was missing, so he hastily stepped back down to the main chamber; his head flicking almost spasmodically from side to side, as he tried to glean more clues.

Nothing seemed out of place; everything was exactly as it had been earlier that day, when he had left. Then for some unknown reason, his eyes were drawn to the space beneath the stairs, and he crouched a little; squinting into the late afternoon gloom of a rainy day that filtered through the dirty windows.

Gaius inhaled sharply; another small rock dropping down to join the one already spinning in his stomach. He hurried over to squat painfully down beneath the steps and stare at the little cupboard, which held the only evidence of a change since he had gone out. Though the doors were still shut, the padlock he had secured them with was not; it hung open, still attached to the eye of the latch. Raising a suddenly cold and palsy hand to wrench open the doors, Gaius frantically scanned the contents; praying silently to any deity who would listen that he had simply suffered a short spell of absentmindedness, last time he accessed the cabinet, and forgot to lock it. Nothing answered his prayer: there _was_ something missing and unaccounted for.

"Shit!" Gaius did not often encounter situations where there was a need for expletives. Most things could be cowed and his distress expressed in the hefty raise of an eyebrow or a steely glare. They were usually enough to satisfy his need for emotive output, and took a lot less effort. But this was one of those rare occasions when a little something extra was called for. And at least there was no-one around to witness his unusual loss of control.

Right, no beating about the bush this time: he had to get help. And the best place to start - though it pained him to involve the man, when he was so busy and had had enough on his plate to deal with recently - was the King. If Arthur did not know where his servant was, he at least had the resources to do a quicker and more thorough search for him than one arthritic old man could.

Taking only enough time to change into dry clothes and reattach the padlock to the cabinet (though little good it would do, if Merlin was just going to break into it with magic: thinking about it, he was positive he _had_locked the cabinet last time he'd gone in there), Gaius hastened out of his chambers again. He spared a momentary glance for what he now realised was obviously a spelled guard, the physician shook his head dolefully and carried on down the steps; content the man would wake soon enough, with probably no more wrong with him than a sore head and an angry captain to answer to.

* * *

"So, are you coming?"

Arthur heaved another weary sigh, and lifted his eyes up from the words of the treaty he was too busy thinking about something else to concentrate on properly. It didn't help that the man leaning over him, on the other side of the desk, had been doing his utmost over the last half hour to be as distracting as possible. His techniques so far ranged from periodically pilfering items from the King's as-yet-untouched late lunch, to using one of his antique - and therefore very valuable - display daggers to clean under his nails, to trying out nearly every chair in the room, whilst simultaneously tapping an irregular rhythm with his boot on the floor, and making odd popping noises with his mouth and puffed out cheeks. If Arthur had not been doing everything in his power to ignore the man and actually _read_ the words on the parchment in front of him, instead of just _seeing_ them, he would have yelled for the guards to remove the 'runaway court jester' from his chambers and dump him in the deepest, darkest oubliette until he learned to tap his feet to a better tune and clean his nails with a brush made for the purpose.

"Arthur?"

He ground his teeth together hard enough to crack a walnut, and for the first time in the last ten minutes, raised his gaze from the desk to glare daggers at the insolent face smiling back at him.

"Gwaine."

The bewhiskered man grinned wider still at the triumph of persistence over pride. "So you _can_ hear me. Good! Always useful to be able to hear, for things like 'Run!', 'Duck!' and 'It's your round, sire'."

Arthur quirked an eyebrow at the knight, his face devoid of mirth. "Is there something you wanted, _Sir_ Gwaine? As you can see, I have a kingdom to run," he said acidly, and yanked the half-empty plate towards himself, when the other man reached a hand out for the last remaining drumstick. "And I'll have you know that stealing from the King's plate is a flogging offence."

Gwaine snorted derisively and fell into the chair opposite his liege. "Just filling in."

"Filling in?"

"For Merlin, y'know. Someone's got to stop you getting fat until he's back at work."

Arthur pouted and growled quietly, like a sulky five-year-old with a distended lower lip, "I am _not_ fat!"

Gwaine leaned back in the chair and folded his hands behind his head. "Hah! It'll only be a matter of time, if you let your Merlin substitute get your meals for much longer. When are you?"

Arthur sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand, whilst admitting defeat over the parchment and thrusting it across the polished wooden surface with the other. "When am I _what_, Gwaine?"

"Giving Merlin his job back," Gwaine said, semi-exasperatedly, as if it should have been perfectly obvious what he had meant by his cryptic half-sentence.

Arthur lifted both hands to rub the heels into his eyelids before continuing their journey through his tousled hair. "He never _lost_ his job, _Gwaine_." Arthur - tired, hungry and more than a bit irascible - decided two could play at the game of being facetious.

"You, know what I mean, _Sire_. You need to _tell_ him he can come back to work. Which brings me back to my first point: when are you going to talk to him, your highnessness? Because I distinctly remember a conversation we had this morning, where I said you need to talk to Merlin, and you agreed."

"I did no such thing!"

"But you didn't disagree."

"No. _I_ recall telling you to remember who is King and the subject was closed."

"Walking away and taking your anger out on Leon with a practice sword does not mean the conversation was over, Princess; merely postponed."

"Gwaine..."

"And now we're going to finish it."

"I think maybe you'd better-"

"_Why_ won't you talk to him?" Gwaine interrupted him, his own anger beginning to show.

Arthur banged a fist on the table, causing the lid on the pot of ink, which he had carelessly left open earlier, to fall shut with a tinny clink. He glared up at the audacious knight, from below his furrowed brow. "I've _tried_ talking to him, Gwaine. He doesn't want to. I can't force him to tell me what's wrong if he won't open his damn mouth!" He threw his hands in the air in exasperation.

"So don't ask; just talk," Gwaine countered, placing his own fist forcefully enough on the desk for the knife and fork next to Arthur's plate to clank a reply to the inkpot.

"Talk?" Arthur guffawed contemptuously. "About what? I've told him I will find someone else to help him with his chores and that he should find the time to eat. I told him to talk to me, Gwen, Gaius, or anyone else if he wants to get something off his chest. I've told him he didn't need to fucking kill himself if there was something on his mind. And where has it got me? Nowhere! The clotpole just ignores me, and stares at the sodding wall whenever I'm there! So what would you have me do, _Sir_ Gwaine? I can't spend all day beating my head against a brick wall, when I have meetings to attend and treaties to approve and men to train. If he wants to be left alone then fine - I'll be here when he's finished sulking because I saved his bloody life and found out he was using himself as a pin cushion!"

Gwaine's face darkened and he leered closer to the King, who subconsciously pulled back a few inches. When he spoke, his voice was black ice. "You know, Princess, you really can be an ignorant fucking arsehole, sometimes."

A thunder cloud seemed to descend over Arthur's face, his eyes narrowing with the danger they foretold for the loose-mouthed peasant-turned-knight. Gwaine didn't flinch a muscle as he held the King's gaze; his own forehead accepting the challenge of 'who can hold the deepest creases for longest'. The King, realising his opponent was not going to back down or retract the uncouth remark, opened his mouth to raise the stakes of the game, when-

There was a loud knock on the door.

Blue eyes continued to hold brown in a solid tackle as the less hirsute of the two men called out, "Come!"

Neither combatant was willing to concede the staring contest to look away from the other, and so it was only when the man spoke that either realised who had entered the room.

"Sire?"

Arthur looked at Gwaine a moment longer, conveying the clear message that they would be picking the discussion up again later, and that the knight had better come up with either an apology or a valid point, or he would be partaking of a degrading encounter with semi-decomposed fruit and vegetable in the marketplace. Then, ocular threat in place, he flicked his eyes over to the visitor, and his surprise wiped the fury from his face as effectively as a bucket of cold water over the head.

"Gaius? Is everything alright?"

Gwaine turned round in his chair, at hearing who had come in, and together they watched as the old man bustled over; not failing to notice his heavy breathing, sweating face, and wispy hair in disarray. Alarm bells ringing at the physician's concerned expression and physical exertions, the two younger men stood; Gwaine turning fully round to face him, while Arthur quickly stepped round to the other side of his desk.

The King held a hand out to steady his old friend and asked, kindly but firmly - not wanting to wait a second longer than necessary for an answer, "What is it, Gaius? What's happened?"

Gaius met the young King's anxious gaze and, having calmed his respiration somewhat, swallowed hard and said, "Forgive me for the intrusion, sire, but it's Merlin."

At this, Gwaine took a step closer to the physician, his face filled with a fierce protectiveness for his young servant friend, as if he readying himself to admonish the King if he didn't show an adequate amount of worry for the subject of their conversation. "Is he alright, Gaius?" he said, hand drifting to the hilt of his sword; prepared to back up his concern with its threat.

Gaius sighed and shook his head. "I'm afraid I don't know," and before either knight or King could voice the question he could see was about to burst from their lips, he continued. "He's missing."

And in terse sentences, the court physician explained what he had discovered on his return to his quarters; leaving out the fact that the guard's sleep was not a natural one. Gwaine closed his eyes, his face paling, and swore colourfully.

Gaius looked at the King, his own face grim and haggard. Arthur was staring into space, his expression stony and unmoving, but his eyes spoke volumes. The King was livid.

This was the last straw! He was going to tear the whole castle inside out to find that bloody scrawny excuse for a manservant, and he didn't care if he got every last guard and scullery maid involved in the search. And then, he was going to do whatever it took - permanently drug him with Gaius' strongest sleeping draught, if necessary - just to ensure he knew where the bloody idiot was at all times. For his own good, obviously. And as for that Guard - Nilson, or Narlsford, or whatever his name was (Leon did tell him only that morning, when they had gone over the roster together, but as with a lot of information he was given these days, it was instantly forgotten amongst the plethora of other things a King needed to know on a daily basis). He would be reposted to guarding the royal garderobe, or whatever other horribly demeaning job he could think of, by the end of the day. Falling asleep in the middle of the afternoon, indeed!

And then he was moving and shouting. Snapping orders to the guards, who had answered his summons to the room. Sending Gwaine to gather the rest of the knights and recruit them into the search. Querying Gaius on his general impression of his ward's state of mind, and anything he had said that might aid them. And all the while, strutting to and fro in the room, as he gathered and donned jacket, belt and sword; his movements agitated and impatient.

"Sire." The King paused on his way towards the exit, and turned back to throw a restless look - thinly veiled by a tight smile - over to the physician. Gaius was looking every bit as pensive and worried as he felt, but with the added element of a man bearing a secret he wished to unload and therefore either lighten his burden or recruit another to his cause.

"What is it, Gaius?" Arthur asked curtly.

"There's something else you need to know."

Arthur couldn't help noticing how the old man's hands fidgeted with the embroidered cuffs of his robe, and..._was that a look of guilt on his wrinkled face?_ He raised an eyebrow in encouragement to continue.

"Merlin took my entire supply of hemlock with him." At the King's confused look, he added, "It's poison, sire; deadly poison."


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N:  
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**Yay! Managed to get this finished before 5:02. Hands up who's excited it's nearly Merlin day *starts Mexican wave around the world*.  
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**Thank you so much for all your lovely, encouraging reviews, favourites and follows...including those I could not answer, due to you being a guest. They all fill me up with happy juice (which makes writing so much easier).  
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**Disclaimer:  
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**Merlin's great, isn't it? But, unfortunately, not mine...  
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**Chapter 15**

Merlin came to a staggering stop and leaned heavily against the trunk of a gnarled, old oak tree; his head bowed forwards with the effort to get his ragged breathing under control. He was beginning to feel more than a little light-headed and nauseous, to the point that he was questioning his wisdom in choosing today to do this. Perhaps it would have been wiser to wait another few days; to get his strength up a bit more, before attempting the trek. Or at least have eaten all of his last meal. The rain wasn't helping either, though thankfully it was easing off to a steady drizzle from its previous torrent. But not before it had soaked him through to the bone within ten minutes of leaving the castle. And it was now doing a grand job of sucking all the heat out of him, which was not being replaced by the decreasing warmth of the waning sun.

It would normally take him only two or three hours, at a light jog, to get to where he was going. On this occasion, however, he had already been travelling for that length of time, and judging by the usual landmarks, he was only about half-way there. And he was fatigued enough to be starting to doubt he would make it the rest of the way this night. He determinedly ignored the voice, made near-inaudible by being continually disagreed with, at the back of his mind. It had the audacity to suggest that maybe he should turn back, return to the white city, and face the music that was bound to be playing a cacophonous discord of angry accusations and recriminations.

Merlin thought he should have been appalled at the ease with which he had been allowed to leave Camelot. Though quite what the guard at the South Gate had thought about his sanity, for going out to gather herbs in the early evening, and in such inclement weather, he didn't want to contemplate. He had instead been more troubled by how readily the lie had slipped through his lips. Like the tongue of a serpent. The image made him shudder, as it reminded him of the Fomorrah Morgana had once tried to control him with. Perhaps he was still under its influence, somehow? Maybe instead of growing back in his neck, it had implanted itself in his brain; eating away at his moral core, until the lies flowed from him without censure. But no, he had not recently had any inclination to murder the King. Quite the opposite in fact. And he could hardly blame the creature, that had once invaded him, for so many years of lies, when it was mere months ago that he had fallen prey to the mendacity of its voice.

No, the flaws in his character were nothing and nobody's fault but his own. No-one had pushed him to the poor decisions he had made. Well maybe one other, but as a creature of the old religion, blaming him was akin to blaming himself. And perhaps, at the end of the day, they were both of them victims of that pair of vicious whores that were fate and destiny. Yet still, the choice to listen to them, rather than heeding his own council, was down to him. He had had misgivings, each time a need arose to choose one path or another, and in each instance, like the fool he was, he had chosen poorly. Not once either. So if he was not going to learn from his mistakes, what did that say about his ability to make future, equally critical, decisions, which would affect not only his life but the lives of those he loved?

Such as the manner of his death. It was he who had selected the location to do it, and the time of day, and the method by which it would be done. All of which had lead to his failure. And that had ultimately caused his friends pain. Well, more pain than he had already caused over the years. Just another block to add to the crooked pathway of his ill-advised existence. But at least on this occasion, he had learned his lesson. This time, there would be no chance of witnesses to his ending, no cure for his mode of achieving it and no way that he would not succeed. He would at last, with his final breath, leave some legacy of his actions to be proud of. And when they found him, as he had no doubt the skills of the knights of Camelot would ensure that they would, his only requirement of their effort on his behalf would to burn his remains and forget. It was a pity he could not take on that burden himself, and then there would be no more left to be done.

_Okay, may as well get moving._ There was still some way to go. Rubbing the drops of water from his lashes and dripping fringe, Merlin peered into the ever-deepening gloom ahead, double-checking the direction he needed to take. It would be too easy to get lost, with the sun now below the horizon, and end up going around in circles; wasting time trying to return to the route he had chosen. That other small (though not quite so ignored) voice in his psyche chided him that it was not inconceivable that he just might be giving time to someone who was following him; enough to catch up.

Thrusting his weak and weary body forwards a step, as if the tree itself had rejected his deceit-riddled body, he began again; first at a haphazard walk, then - forcing his protesting legs to increase the pace - an ungainly half-run. And the oppressive thoughts were squeezed from his mind by the overbearing toil of having to place one foot in front of another, without tripping or succumbing to a sliding fall.

Minutes later, he realised - with a pang that twanged his heart strings - that he was approaching the clearing where he had so often sojourned with the Great Dragon, after he had been granted his release. Here was the place of so many turnstiles in the winding journey of his life to this point. This was where he had oft sought advice to a dilemma and returned with the decision made; usually badly, as it turned out. But this was not the place to which he was aiming, and so he had only to cross it, without need to stop and roar a summons to his draconic brethren.

Merlin burst through the tree line, his breath already loud again in his ears, and increased his pace a little, with a view to reaching the other side as quickly as possible; fearing his exposure to the sky would make him prey to a creature of the night, and take the privilege that he had reserved for his own hand. He was half-way across the rain-slicked field, when a horribly familiar sound drummed into his ears.

_Oh no, not now!_ Heart sinking, he looked up, and caught sight of skin-stretched wings, ridge-lined neck and undulating tail; silhouetted against a moon-lit cloud, and descending towards him rapidly.

Merlin stopped - _what point was there in running now anyway?_ - taking a step or two back, as the ancient reptile landed with a deafening thud a few yards in front of him. The ground tremored and the trees swayed back, as if in fear of being ripped from the earth to which they clung. Kilgharrah folded his wings at his back and crouched low, bringing his eye-level closer to the much smaller being before him. For what seemed an age, the two held each other's gaze; silently contemplating. For the first time in many weeks, Merlin did not look away from another's scrutiny; letting the viewer see him - inside as well as out.

Then Kilgharrah sat back, wrapping his tail around his front feet like a cat, before rumbling out, "Your heart is much troubled, young warlock."

Merlin bit the inside of his cheek, and broke his gaze with the dragon; looking away to the right, to the line of trees he had been running towards, as if by doing so, he could make himself appear beneath their shelter, and make good an escape from questions he'd rather not answer.

The golden dragon tilted his vast head to one side thoughtfully. "Why did you not heed my calls?" Still there was no reply, but he continued regardless. "_You_ may not have summoned me with your voice, but you did with your soul. I heard it cry out its torment and anguish. It was impossible for me to ignore, Emrys."

At last he was rewarded with a response, but rather than an explanation, it was a scornful snort and an unprecedented bitter glare. Something inside Merlin had snapped tight at these words, and he sniped out in a harsh whisper, "Don't call me that!"

The dragon straightened his neck, raising his head higher, his eyes widening in surprise at his friend's acid tone. "But...that is your name, young warlock," he said; deep voice rich with his typical mockery.

This only seemed to grate the dark-haired man further, and with clenched fists and a deepening crease in his brow, he muttered, "So _you_ say."

The dragon mirrored the frown, as he curved his neck to bring his face closer to the sullen man once more. "It is not_ I _that named you so, Emrys. I am but a messenger to destiny; and it is yours to bear it."

Merlin threw his head back at this, and blasted a single, humourless laugh to the sky. "Destiny? Right. That same old excuse again, is it?" He folded his arms then, hugging the little heat his body was struggling to maintain to him, and glared up at the dragon from under one raised eyebrow. "That's what you said to me the first time I met you, and it makes just as little sense to me now as it did then."

"What are you talking about, young-" the dragon began, but was cut off by Merlin's angry shout; his fists clenched at his side.

"I SHOULDN'T HAVE LISTENED TO YOU, KILGHARRAH!" He put his head in his hands then and dug at his hair roots with his fingers; pulling at the ebony strands, as if by doing so he could punish the brain inside that had believed the dragon's words. "None of it. Because where has it got me? Where has it _ever_ got me?" Merlin flopped on the ground then, and sat cross-legged; his head bowed and face in his hands.

The dragon eyed him for a moment, before crouching down to lay his belly on the grass; elbows and knees pointing up. He drew his head in close to the curled up form of the man before him, and his features moved into something approaching sympathy; or as close as a thousand year-old creature of magic could get. "Merlin, tell me what has happened," he said, in a much softer tone.

Merlin shook his head a moment, his face still hidden by his palms, before uttering a muffled, "It's gone wrong; all of it. And it's entirely my fault."

"What has gone wrong, young warlock, tell me," the dragon coaxed, gently.

Merlin gave a huge sniff, and rubbed at his nose and eyes with the dangling cuffs of his sleeves, not that they were in much of a state to soak up any more fluids. He looked up at the glowing, golden eyes, so close to his head. "Everything, Kilgharrah; from day one. Everything I did. Every choice I made. No good came of it. Whenever I thought I was helping someone, I only brought harm to them, or to someone else. So many times, I was sure I was on the right track, only to be proved wrong, time and time again. I keep making mistakes; idiotic, stupid, easily-avoided mistakes. And it's not just me who pays for them. Everyone does. I keep hurting everyone around me, and I'm tired of seeing their pain; the costs they have to pay for my errors."

"We can all but follow one road, Merlin. The path that fate has made for us," the dragon rumbled in a low voice. "Stray but a short way from it, and fate has a way of getting us back to it. One way or another, we must go the way that has been chosen for us, young warlock." The dragon cocked a sardonic eye at the dark haired man looking back at him.

Merlin jerked his head up and down once, but not in agreement. His face had grown steadily darker at the dragon's analogy, and now seemed like a collection of cold, hard planes; decorated with glistening beads, as he was peppered by the thinning drops of rain. "Fate?" he spat back resentfully. "It wasn't fate that made Morgana turn against her family and friends. Fate did not kill Uther. Nor did it make Arthur hate magic forever." Then he added in a low voice, almost to himself; looking down at the ground in front of him, "Hate _me_forever." He closed his eyes for a moment, as if trying to blot out the past from his mind's eye; but it invaded it all the same. As frequently happened in his sleep, and the quiet moments, when he had nothing else to occupy his mind through his mundane chores, his past mocked and taunted him; made him watch again and again, as it replayed every single wrong he had done. Each revisit to his memory placed another stone in his heart, until it was so weighed down with the guilt and remorse for the pages in his life's book that were already written in ink, and which therefore he could not change. And no matter how many times he tried to repair the damage he had done, he could not rewrite his history.

It was all spectacularly unfair. And yet, at the same time, just and most definitely deserved.

"I told you, Merlin, a half cannot truly hate that which makes it whole." The dragon spoke the words softly, slowly, emphasising each one, as if he communed with a child. Which made Merlin's reaction all the more unexpected.

"YES IT CAN!" he yelled, at the top of his voice, and the dragon pulled his head back a few feet in dismay. "Arthur does," he continued, though not quite so loudly; the fire from his voice having been transferred to an angry ember in his eyes, which he used to singe the scales of the creature before him. His voice continued to quieten and cool, though his words were still a caustic acid; flaying his tongue and everything else they touched. "He may not know it yet, but he does hate me, and it is only a matter of time before he finds out what I've done. To his sister, his father, his people. I did it; I killed them. My _magic _killed them." Merlin looked down at his raised palms; at the pale, dirty skin and slightly trembling digits; as if looking for the blood - ingrained in the fine lines - to show as evidence of his guilt. He curled his fingers in on themselves; turning them into white claws. Hard and heartless. "Arthur's right," he said quietly, no longer addressing the dragon, "I am pure evil."

"Merlin-" the dragon began sternly, but stopped at the sound of a bush behind the young man rustling slightly.

Merlin too had heard it - in the eerie quiet of the clearing, now that the rain had become no more than a background susurration - and he turned around; heart beating faster, in fear of the unknown threat. They both listened in silence for a few moments, but when there were no more interruptions, Merlin resolved that it must have been a deer, or some other such harmless creature that wandered the night; probably now scared away by their voices and the dragon's scent. He turned back to see the dragon smiling, with an odd look in his eye, and he narrowed his own eyes in curiosity. When no comment from Kilgharrah was forthcoming, he assumed that the dragon was thinking of a fresh venison meal, and shrugged away his doubts to continue his rant.

"Uther was right. We're monsters; abominations of nature. We should not be allowed to live."

At this, the dragon rose up to his full height, and exhaled a vast jet of flame into the darkness above them, with a loud and angry cry. Merlin looked up, but gave no further reaction to the creature's display. His ire sated for the moment, Kilgharrah looked down at the hunched over human, with eyes slitted and smouldering like twin suns. "Enough of this nonsense, warlock!" he growled fiercely. "You are the last dragonlord. My kin. We are of the earth, fire, water and air. We are magic and magic is us, and it is not for us to question the great plan that destiny has woven us into, since the beginning of time. Your coming has been prophesised throughout the history of man, and it is your destiny to protect the once and future King; to unite and return peace to these lands with your gifts. They were given to you for this reason alone. You cannot fight fate and you must not die; for with your death, all hope for the future will die. Arthur can never become what he is destined to be, without you by his side."

Merlin's face split into an ironic grin, though it soon faded away, as he shook his head and gritted his teeth. "You are wrong, Kilgharrah, Arthur does not need me. I am just a pathetic servant. He would go to any other person in his kingdom for advice, before he sought mine. He has made it plain enough times now that he neither needs nor wants me around, and how much better off he would be with someone else doing my job. He has his knights, his council, his family and Gwen; he doesn't need me. And I cannot persuade him of my use to him."

"Then perhaps it is time you revealed your magic to the King? For him to know that without you, he cannot hope to prevail against the evil forces seeking his demise."

Merlin shook his head vigorously; his neck almost cracking with his vehemence. "No, no, no...never; I can _never_ tell him who I am. That is quite clear to me now," he said, his voice shaky and eyes slightly panicked.

"If you would welcome death so readily, then what reason do you have to hesitate," the dragon argued. "Whether it is death by the King's or your own hand, the result will be the same."

But Merlin shook his head again, tears springing to his eyes, to become lost in the wetness that already covered his features. "You don't understand. It's not _that_ I fear. It's...I...I couldn't bear the look on his face at learning of my betrayal. I _am_ a traitor, Kilgharrah! I have lied to him. From the moment I met him, I have lied. And I can't do that to him; to see the pain I have caused him all over again. Like it was with Morgana, and when he found out about why Ygraine died. I have already hurt him enough; hurt everyone enough." Merlin sniffed and swallowed hard; forcefully shoving away the grief before it could overwhelm him again. He did not deserve self-pity or sympathy from others. Nobody could fully understand the burden of shame he carried, and therefore their words of consolation were hollow anyway.

"And Arthur is not the only one who has suffered because of me. That druid boy, Mordred, is alive somewhere; his heart full of hate because I tried to have him killed for some stupid prophecy I should not have believed. If I had left him alone, he would have had no reason to return one day to seek revenge for all the druids that were killed when I lead Arthur to them." Merlin waved his head from side to side again in disbelief and chuckled forlornly. "Hell, if I had just talked to Morgana, reassured her about her magic, instead of first sending her to seek help from others and then poisoning her, we would not be in the mess we're in today. She only wanted someone to talk to, so she would not feel so alone, and I pushed her away; right into Morgause's arms. And now she wants Arthur dead, because she believes taking the throne will right the wrongs that I have done her."

The dragon cocked an eyebrow at this and pouted at his dragonlord. "You say you are troubled by the deaths you have caused, and yet you would willingly welcome your own?"

Merlin dug his hand in his jacket pocket, and fingered the small bottle he found there; rolling it around in its leather nest, and tracing a thumb along the label that had drawn him to it for its irony. How fitting that it should take the life from the one who'd used it to attempt to take that of his friend. And this time, there was no horrified family member to prevent the poison's success. "This is different!" he replied, his face freshly determined to his purpose. My life is mine to bear; to continue or end as I see fit. Whether I take another breath is _my_ choice; the _only_ choice I will ever truly have." His face fell and became haggard and drawn; the weight of his soul pinning him down to the earth that called him to its promise of rest. A release from the crushing disaster that had been his existence so far.

When his voice came again, it was quiet and powerless, as if his body was already beginning its gradual release of what was left of the vast pool of energy it had once contained. "Everything else in my life has not been something I had a choice in. I did not _choose_ to have magic or be hated for it. I did not _choose_ to come to Camelot, where I could burn for my so called 'gifts'. It was not _my_ choice to work for the son of the man who would light my pyre, should he come to know what I am. Every corner I have turned, every direction I have headed, has been predetermined by another; a greater force than me."

All through the young man's speech, the dragon had listened patiently, knowing the wisdom of allowing his lord to release the pressure that could be sensed, swelling in his chest. Now he closed his great, swirling eyes tight, and let out a huge sigh that ruffled the man's hair in a warm breeze. "So it is for us all, Merlin. You are not the only prisoner to duty." The dragon glanced up and gazed into the distance, a knowing smile tugging at his reptilian lips.

At this, Merlin stood up, his fists clenched tight at his sides. "And I say 'no more'!" he said through hard-pressed lips. "I will not be dictated to anymore, and have my choices taken from me. This time, _I _will choose."

"You cannot lose hope in the future, Merlin," Kilgharrah said quietly. "You must be strong and remain patient."

"Hope? Hah! Hope is for fools and wide-eyed children," the warlock muttered resentfully; his face grim and for once looking decades older than his age implied. "I'm not a child anymore, Kilgharrah. Hope, for me, died long ago. And I _have_ waited. So long. But nothing has changed. And I know it never will."

"You cannot deny your destiny!" Kilgharrah roared, his patience with his unsuasible kin fading fast.

Merlin took a step towards him, his whole body taut, as he ground out, "Watch me!" He drew the bottle from his pocket in a single move; brandishing it before the giant beast, before lowering it back to his side. He lifted his other hand to wag a finger in the shocked dragon's direction, as if admonishing a recalcitrant child, not a being of ancient wisdom. "And I command you to not stop me." The dragon looked down at him incredulously, as Merlin continued. "My last order still stands, whether or not I am here to enforce it. You will _never_ attack Camelot. Oh, and one last thing: you will protect Arthur and do everything in your power to stop Morgana."

Kilgharrah stared down his nose at the warlock. And when his reply came, it was rife with disdain. "That is _your_ task, Emrys."

Merlin lowered his arm and shook his head. "Not anymore. I quit! Was never very good at it and everyone said so: you, Gaius, the King. Now _I_ have accepted the truth and so should you. You were all wrong. I am _not_ Emrys! It may be that one day he will come, and restore magic to Albion; I don't know. But_ I _am not him. And who's to say that magic _should _berestored? Perhaps, like me, it would be better off dead."

The great dragon looked down at the ground, his neck drooping with sorrowful resignation at an argument he knew he could not win. "Your words sadden me, young warlock," he rumbled sincerely.

For the first time since their confrontation began, Merlin's face was softened by regret. "And for that I am sorry," he said, though the ends of his mouth remained down-turned. "But that will not change my mind."

Kilgharrah sighed again, and blinked heavily. "You are determined to go through with this? To forsake all those that depend on you, who have been waiting for your coming to set them free?" he asked, his voice heavy and austere, as he awaited the answer he had no need to guess.

"I am. And no, I will not be forsaking others, as it is not me they have been waiting for. You cannot weigh my conscience down any further than it already is, Kilgharrah. I know I have let people down. I've been letting people down since I first came to Camelot. _That_ is what I am here to stop. They have placed me on a pedestal and heaped all their hopes on me. If I am not here, they will have the chance to find their _true_ saviour. The _real_ Emrys. Not settle for a poor substitute."

A rueful smear of a smile slanted the dragon's mouth. "I have said this before, but this world will be an empty place without you."

And it was as if a granite cloud had descended over the dark-haired man's whole frame. With half-closed eyes and furrowed brow he snarled, "Yeah, and thanks to you saying that, Lancelot sacrificed himself!"

The dragon glared back defensively. "It was a worthy sacrifice: he saved the King."

"But that was _my_ job!" Merlin yelled. "And I failed...again!"

"Arthur's life was not the only one he valued above his own. Do not undermine his gift to you by throwing the life he saved away, Merlin."

Merlin swiped his hand across the air between them. "Enough! I will not be swayed by your pretty speeches again. Lancelot is dead. As is my father, and Freya, and Will. I have allowed too many to lose their lives for my sake. To protect a secret I can never divulge, when I could have used it to save them. It ends here."

Kilgharrah snorted an acquiescent huff; two thin trails of smoke escaping the confines of his nostrils, and his eyes darkening with remorse. "If you are so unalterably convinced, Merlin, then there is nothing more I can do." He glanced directly into Merlin's stalwart gaze, a wicked glint in his eye, and said "Is there any message you wish to convey to Aithusa? She misses you."

Merlin hung his head, shame biting at the lining of his stomach, and a lump clawing at his throat, but he simply shook his head; unable to raise his eyes from the ground. "Just...take care of her for me. Don't ever let her come near Camelot. Keep her hidden and safe."

Kilgharrah bowed his great head solemnly and croaked out, "Yes, my lord."

A small smile twitched at Merlin's mouth at the sense of irony those words drew, and he held it on his reluctant features a while longer as he gazed up sadly at the creature he commanded. "Farewell, old friend," he said; softly, but utter finality. One last dismissal.

The dragon looked at him deeply, pointedly, and then returned the smile, with an oddly knowing one of his own. "Until we meet again, Emrys." And with a great down-sweep of his suddenly outstretched wings, the creature of ancient legend launched himself into the indigo night.

Merlin swayed in the swirls of wind conjured by his friend's passage, and watched as the huge beast took a last, low sweep over the tops of the trees behind him, before he gained more height and was swallowed up by the velvet sky. Letting out a long, slow, leaden breath from his lungs, and with it all the worries, impeachments and misgivings, he looked down at the glass container he still clutched absentmindedly.

Heck, what was he waiting for? It made no real difference where he did this, after all. Yes, it would have given the whole business a nice sense of closure to have done it by their lake, where he could be closest to _her_ final resting place. Like two spouses, resting hand-in-hand in a twin grave. But it made no difference to the end result or where he was ultimately headed; whether that be Avalon or somewhere else. And he had doubts that it would be the former, with the sins he had committed. Perhaps he would be doomed to roam the Earth; forever watching those he left behind but could no longer interact with? Maybe, one day, he would come back; reborn into another body. With another destiny. But with this one, he was done. Finished.

The warlock lifted a quivering hand and rested finger and thumb on the cork of the bottle; pausing to allow his palpitating heart to ease down a gear or two, lest he spill the contents of the vessel on the ground, not where they needed to go. Taking one deep, calm lungful of air after another, as if savouring the last untroubled breaths he would have this side of life, he pulled out the stopper and lifted the glass to his pursed lips.

He held it there a moment, systematically thinking through the process required to raise his elbow high and twist his wrist just so; allowing the deadly liquid to wend its way where gravity would take it. He was about to put those thoughts into action, when...

...The right side of his head exploded with a blinding pain. He felt the bottle slip from shocked fingers and his knees wobble and give way. Before his body could follow the poison's passage down, blackness rose up and swallowed him.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N:  
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**Sorry it's been a little longer since I last updated. RL has been a bit more hectic than usual this week. But at least I managed to post this before Saturday's epic-looking episode (they need to invent a better word than 'excited', because that just doesn't cut it as far as waiting for episodes of Merlin is concerned!).  
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**Thank you once again for all the wonderful feedback you guys have given me - including all the anonymous ones I couldn't send a personal reply to. You guys still blow me away with your thoughtfulness :O)  
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**Oh and one last suggestion, before I leave you to your perusing: you might want to have chapter 15 handy for the latter half of this chapter (my beta struggled to remember Merlin and Kilgharrah's entire conversation without it). But then again, you might have a better memory than him ;P  
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**Disclaimer:  
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**If Merlin was mine, I would be there; stalking every venue that Colin Morgan turns up at, instead of reading about it afterwards on FB and feeling so gutted I wasn't there...grrr. Until then, Shine can enjoy the privilege.  
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**Chapter 16**

Twenty-two paces. That's how long it took for Arthur to walk from one end of the council chambers to the other. Twenty, if he was feeling as angry as he had done when he first entered the room an hour ago. Twenty-eight when he allowed himself to get distracted by the long, dark shadows formed by the lowering light filtering through the tall, chequered windows at the far end. And the Pendragon-emblemed banners hanging to either side, and the half-melted candles in their stands between the room's pillars. And just about anything that would take his mind off thinking about his missing manservant for a few moments, now that his anger had cooled right down into a solid, icy mass of worry in his gut.

This was ridiculous! Rousing the whole bloody castle to search for one absent servant. Again. Only unlike last time, this wasn't just a person who was avoiding company to lament in a far off corner somewhere. Okay, maybe he had had other, more sinister intentions, but at the time, no-one was any the wiser. This time was different. This time, it was a worryingly unstable individual, who had already tried taking his life and had now disappeared, along with another means of achieving the result.

Arthur was itching to do something to help with the search, but he had to wait in this cold, empty room; alone. Waiting, not the slightest bit patiently, for the reports to come in from every chamber, hall, stable, tavern, battlement, gate and corridor, as to where the skinny, dark-haired git had _not_ taken himself off to. Every tally he had received so far had been a negative one. Every face that had daringly penetrated the room had transformed Arthur's briefly hopeful and expectant expression into an echo of its bearer's gloomy tidings. The King no-longer bothered to change his scowl into anything more than a stony pout; while his acknowledgements of the news had been reduced to a dull grunt and barely-there wave of dismissal.

This was so unfair! Hadn't he spent enough time over the past few weeks worrying about the stupid sod? He had tried so hard to be a thoughtful master and concerned friend and where had it got him? He was supposed to be going through the vast pile of paperwork that had been neglected for far too long on his desk, thanks to all the time he had spent talking to, thinking about and cursing Merlin over the last week or two. He had already had to tell George - twice - that he was well aware the supper he had delivered to his chambers was going - and then later, gone - cold. The second instance, his words were uttered with such acerbity that Merlin's stuffy, far-too-attentive replacement had visibly flinched, giving Arthur cause to feel even more guilt than he already did (and never thought it was possible for a King to experience).

It was a sensation that had become all too familiar in recent times, and one he was struggling to cope with, in any way other than tempestuous rages at other equally-innocent members of his staff and court. Gods, but why couldn't the damn idiot just get whatever was bothering him of his bloody chest and be done with all this arsing about!

_You insensitive bastard!_ his Gwaine-a-like conscience berated him. _Right now, Merlin could be lying somewhere - dead - with an empty bottle of poison the only evidence beside him of his activities over the past couple of hours, and you're worried about the flipping boring reports you think of any excuse under the sun to avoid any other day of the week. And Merlin's right, you _are_ getting fat. So one less meal won't do you any harm!_

Arthur was interrupted from his self-flagellation by the sound of the council room door opening and he looked up - automatically schooling his expression into one less like that of a young boy, breathlessly awaiting his father's return from a lengthy campaign - as his Uncle strode into the room. Arthur couldn't help noticing the almost self-satisfied smirk that had been on Agravaine's face, for the one or two unguarded moments, until he had shaped it into a suitably condoling grimace for his nephew. But the King's rebellious eagerness for some positive information soon blotted out the memory from his mind, and he walked forwards the few paces necessary to meet his mother's brother half-way.

"What news, Agravaine?" he said, doing his utmost to keep his voice regal enough to avoid an admonishing frown.

The older man sighed heavily, and his features morphed into an almost mockingly unrealistic frown of sympathy. "I have had the reports in from all the gate sentries, my Lord, and there has been no sighting of the boy leaving the city."

His tone was almost an exact copy of that he had used when presenting Arthur with the scrap of Merlin's bloodied jacket, after he had been lost in the Valley of the Fallen Kings, and Arthur's stomach clenched at the unwanted intrusion of the memory. He didn't know whether to be relieved or concerned by the information. On the one hand, it meant Merlin had to still be somewhere within the city walls, so they could rule out the vast acres of forest and other such places outside the gates that he could have gotten to by now. But on the other hand, there were only so many places he could be hiding, and yet he was not in any of those so far. And the longer it took to find him, the more unlikely it was that he would be found a- _NO! Do NOT think on it! We _will_ find him...alive. And make damn sure he stays that way...even if he has to be locked in the bloody dungeon!_

Unwittingly, Arthur had been cracking his knuckles, while he glared at some point on the floor in front of him, as if the very flagstones had conspired with the clotpole, and were somehow keeping him from being unearthed. It was a habit he had unintentionally picked up from many times spent spying on his father - from a servant's doorway or heavily curtained alcove - as Uther had awaited word of their victory or death from the knights he had sent into battle. All the while pacing the same path his son did now.

Arthur looked up to catch a glimpse of his Uncle watching the motions of his hands with a raised eyebrow, and self-consciously whipped his arms behind his back to thread his fingers together instead. "Thank you, Agravaine," he said curtly, "You may go." And he turned around to hide the tightness in his jaw and around his eyes that thoughts of his vanished friend brought to his face. He waited, expecting to hear the sound of retreating footsteps, followed by the opening and closing of the door. But when they did not come, he turned slowly; favouring his loitering and obviously-unwilling-to-accept-the-dismissal Uncle with a questioning frown. "Is there something you wish to add, Lord Agravaine?" he said, though having to force the ball of dread back down in his gut at what the noble would pull him up on now. It wouldn't take more than one attempt to guess what it might be.

"Sire," the simpering man began, with a small smile shaping his lips, as he bent forwards in a quick bow. "Might I be permitted to make a small observation?"

Arthur resolutely forced his eyeballs not to spin in their sockets and the juvenile 'No!' that itched to be screamed from his tight throat to remain an unrealised whim. He instead gave the man a slight nod of approval to proceed and brought one hand in front of him to reinforce his permission to speak freely.

The older man brought his gloved hands to clasp them in front of him, in a stance Arthur had come to recognise as his lecturing mode, and said, "Are you certain it is entirely necessary to recruit _all_ the staff for this search?" He widened a smile to cushion the undeniable callousness of his suggestion, before adding to his argument. "Many of the servants had already come to the end of their shifts when you ordered their assistance. And after all," and here, he at least had the forethought to look embarrassed at what he was about to suggest, "the boy is only a servant himself. Albeit a very loyal one," he added hastily, watching nervously for the King's reaction before he continued. "And we should also consider that if Merlin doesn't want to be found, it might be for the best if-"

Arthur cut him off with a cold glare and a raised hand. "Thank you, Uncle, but I'm sure you have other business to attend to now," he said, his voice low and glacial.

With the patience and shrewdness of a long-standing member of the court, Agravaine dipped his head over the hand that covered his heart subserviently, and spun around to walk out the room; a gleeful grin hidden by his retreat.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Arthur exhaled all his frustration out in an audible huff that became almost a groan. How much longer was this going to take? And now, thanks to his Uncle, he had guilt to add to his plate; for the personal time he was demanding from hungry, tired staff who had been prevented from returning to their families. Then a thought struck him. If Merlin was still within the castle somewhere, perhaps everyone was looking for him in only the obvious places. They didn't know of all the places Arthur had found him in, while the recalcitrant cabbage head shirked his chores. He needed to be out there, searching the places _he_ knew. Someone else - anyone, really - could take his place in manning the rendezvous point for messengers.

His spirits somewhat bolstered by having something more practical occupy himself with, Arthur strode towards the door, flung it open and...almost smacked straight into a very wet Gwaine; his hand raised to open the door from the other side.

"Princess," he said with a smirk, "how kind of you. Though I would have thought you had more important things to do than open doors."

"Get to the point, Gwaine," Arthur growled; in no mood for the knight's irritating jocularity. "Have you found him, or haven't you?"

Gwaine took a step back and raised his hands in a placatory gesture. "Okay, okay, keep your tiara on," he said, and then lowered his hands to rest them on his sword pommel and belt. He flicked the sopping strands of hair off his face, causing a couple of droplets to be flung in Arthur's direction, before continuing. "I haven't, as it happens, but I have news of him." At the king's boyishly hopeful look, he gave a sideways grin and then gestured behind him. A dark-haired, similarly soaked, stubble-faced man of middle age stepped out from the shadowy corner, where he had escaped Arthur's notice to that point. He came to stand beside Gwaine and bowed low to the King. It was as he straightened again that Arthur thought he recognised him as one of the castle's guards.

He frowned as he tried to recall the man's name, and was reminded uncomfortably of Merlin's absence again, in a moment when his friend would usually step close and whisper the name he had no hope of remembering in his ear; in his unnerving capacity to retain the names and positions of every member of Arthur's staff when he could not. "It's Engelard, isn't it?"

"Abelard," the man mumbled, though he looked as if he would rather change it to such, than have to correct his King.

Arthur chose to ignore Gwaine's not-at-all hidden eye roll and focused on the out-of-uniform guard. "You have news of my manservant?" he asked, his voice rising unbidden at the end of his question with anticipation.

"Yes, sire." The man looked nervously over at Gwaine, who frowned and gestured with a small flick of the head for him to carry on. He cleared his throat with a brief cough before saying, "I saw him leave from the South gate, sire. Not two hours ago." A look of guilt flashed over the man's face, and he averted his eyes from his King's sudden dark frown.

"Two hours ago?" Arthur was taken aback. "But I've just received confirmation that he was not seen leaving by any of the gates. Are you sure it was him?"

Abelard rubbed at the spikes of his hair that were occasionally dripping water down his face, before giving an affirmative nod. "Yes, my lord," he said, "I'd recognise him anywhere; even when he's looking like a drowned rat." At this, Gwaine snorted, but quickly schooled his expression into something more resembling seriousness, at the fierce glare Arthur slung at him.

"And you just let him walk out the gate? Did you not wonder what he might be doing leaving the city in this weather and at this time of the evening? Did his behaviour not strike you as unusual?" Arthur was trying hard, really hard, not to take his anger out on the man with a raised voice, but could not prevent it giving his words an added bite, nor the questions to come tumbling one after the other without pausing for an answer.

The guard blushed and had to forcibly tear his eyes from the extremely interesting cut of the tops of his boots to meet the King's fuming gaze for a moment, before they drifted away to somewhere less gut-twisting. "I-I'm s-sorry, sire, but the curfew was not yet in place," he stammered, "a-and he said he was going to collect herbs for the Court Physician, which he does quite often, sire. And s-so no, at the time, I did not see a need to stop him from leaving." He glanced across at Gwaine again, who gave him a curt nod and brief smile of encouragement for his honesty.

Arthur sighed and rubbed at his forehead with the back of his hand, before addressing no-one in particular. "Why am I only hearing about this now...two hours after he left?"

Abelard shuffled his feet a little before speaking up again, his voice slightly less abashed. "I'm afraid I went off duty not long after your servant left, sire, and so was not aware of your majesty's order to bring news of him to you. I-I was at the tavern when Sir Gwaine came in asking if anyone had seen the lad."

Arthur looked towards his rogue knight, one eyebrow raised in disbelief that he had not been able to break his near-daily habit for one night when he had a duty to perform.

Gwaine saw his look and raised both hands in protest of his innocence. "What? So was I wrong to figure the best place to find the guards who were on duty when Merlin disappeared was where most of them go when they're not?" Arthur pursed his lips, begrudging him the point. Gwaine frowned. "Actually, I'm surprised Lord Agravaine didn't think of this. He knows when the guards change shift. Bit pointless asking someone who's only been on duty an hour what they saw before they were."

Arthur's frown deepened, but he merely grunted in reply, before looking back to the guard. "Did you happen to notice what direction Merlin headed, when he left, Abelard?"

The man nodded vigorously, doubly relieved he didn't appear to be in any trouble and that he could repay the King's clemency with useful information. "Yes, sire, he was headed west."

The King looked at his knight, who gave him a semi-satisfied grin. It was only slightly tempered by his fear that two hours was awfully ample time for a certain friend of theirs - even if he was on foot and not up to full strength - to find somewhere to hole up and do who knew what to himself.

"I'll saddle the horses," Gwaine said, and with that he was off at a run; back the way he had come.

Having watched him go, his eyes wide open, Abelard turned back to look at the King, who met his gaze with a grim smile. "Thank you for your help, Abelard," he said. "You may return to enjoying what is left of your evening."

Abelard bowed and said, "Thank you, sire."

"Yes, well, just make sure you're not late for your shift in the morning," Arthur said, thoughts on a couple of people of his acquaintance, who regularly took the term 'one or two tankards at the tavern' to an extreme (to the detriment of _their_time-keeping abilities).

"Of course not, sire," Abelard replied and with another bow, spun around to head back to the lower town. Before he got more than three steps, however, he was stopped by his monarch's summons again.

"Oh, and Abelard..."

"Yes, sire," he said, pausing mid-step to turn back to the King, his eyebrows raised questioningly.

"Please find Lord Agravaine, and tell him he can call off the search," Arthur replied, and giving his knuckles one last, resounding crack, he strode away in the directions that his knight had taken.

* * *

For the first time since Arthur had ever been accompanied by the man on a patrol or quest, Gwaine was silent. And for once, the King resented it. Because he needed something to tear himself away from his mind's brutal games of imagining just what state their quarry would be in when they caught up with him. If they did. _No, just shut the fuck up! We _will_ find him, and he won't have drunk that poison, because life simply couldn't be _that _cruel, after all that we've been through to rescue Merlin from himself up 'til now_.

Arthur stole a glance at his companion; his horse trotting almost flank to flank with his own, only a few feet away on the narrow forest path. Like him, Gwaine's hair and clothes were plastered to his skin with the rain. In fact, the weather had only decided to let up in the last few minutes, meaning that visibility had so far not been that helpful. _Just one more thing to conspire against us! Remind me, why am I out here again?_ He was finding it ever harder to subdue the words of his Uncle as they tossed around in the tornado that was rampaging through his skull.

_If Merlin doesn't want to be found, it might be for the best... NO! You can't let a little wet weather and darkness affect your opinion on this. Merlin is sick, and needs our help. And when...not if...when we find him, we will find a cure for this illness; this insatiable desire to punish himself. And he really should leave that to me, because I have had far more experience at it and can demean him as much as he would like, without going to the extreme of..._ He swallowed hard. _Don't think on it! He's not, not yet... Oh come on, Merlin, where the hell are you?_

Either Gwaine was ignoring his scrutiny - his mind equally preoccupied - or he was too busy concentrating on the tracks they'd been following for the last three quarters of an hour to notice it. That was one way in which the weather had actually been a boon as oppose to a hindrance. The ground was wet enough to hold footprints, but not to the extreme of washing them away yet. And now that the rain was at last giving them a break, the clues to Merlin's passage would be preserved for the time being. But just how far can a man run, when it's dark and wet and he has the physical strength of a small child? Arthur had expected by now to have come across him, leaning up against a tree, or collapsed from exhaustion beside the road. But so far: zilch. Not a single, scrawny, scruffily dressed, pale-skinned servant in sight. And he couldn't decide if he was pissed off or scared.

The path beneath the horses' hooves began to slope a little more steeply downhill, and the two riders were forced to slow their pace to a rather frustrating walk, so as to avoid a fall. The ground here was also more strewn with leaf litter and twigs, and so the tracks were a little harder to come by. It was therefore by silent, mutual consent that they decided to dismount and continue - at least for the time being - on foot.

Just as Arthur began to recognise the route they were following as the one that led down to the clearing, where he had confronted and killed the dragon that had attacked Camelot, he felt something land on his shoulder; halting his forward momentum. He looked down to see Gwaine's hand grasping his jacket, and followed the arm back to its owner to see the rogue knight staring fixedly - not at the ground, as he had been doing, whilst he searched for the now more elusive marks of the well known peasant footwear - but straight ahead. Arthur turned his head to follow the bearded man's gaze and gasped aloud. There, no more than fifty yards ahead of them was the clearing he had just been reminiscing about. And just visible through the gap in the trees - silhouetted, thanks to the moon that the clouds had suddenly unveiled - was a vaguely familiar slender figure; walking out into the field.

"Merlin," Arthur said, almost under his breath. A still-walking, breathing, not dead Merlin. Oh, he was going to get it now! Making them come all that way; making them worry about him. Perhaps Gaius was mistaken? If the Hemlock was indeed missing, maybe the old man had mislaid it himself? Maybe, by now, the physician had even found it, and was cursing himself for having shared his concerns with the King, and for the resultant chaos that had been wrought on almost an entire city. Although that still did not answer the question of why Merlin had felt the need to come out all this way for...what? A breath of fresh air? He couldn't be on his way for an unsanctioned visit to his mother, as Ealdor was in the opposite direction.

Well, Arthur wanted answers, and he was going to get them...NOW! He had subconsciously hastened his pace forwards; yanking at the reins of his horse to prevent him from getting distracted by a late, leafy snack, and judging by the soft curses and snaps of twigs, Gwaine was trying to catch up with him on the slightly sloping and slippery leaf mould. All of a sudden, just as Arthur was nearly at the break in the tree line, his stallion dug his heels into the soft earth and refused to take a step further.

Arthur turned on his heel and glared at the beast, tugging on his reins to try and force him to get moving, but the horse wasn't having any of it. "Come on, Aherne," Arthur said, gritting his teeth and frowning at the horse's odd behaviour, "what's got into you?" Aherne merely snorted and tossed his head; his eyes wide and rolling with fear, as he tried desperately to get away from the stubborn human who had control of his head.

A horse's whinnying drew Arthur's attention to his left, and a few feet away, he could see Gwaine was having similar trouble with his own brown mare. She was rearing and bucking, yanking wildly to get the leather straps from the knight's white-knuckled grip, while he alternated between words of calm and threat.

Suddenly they heard a sound that brought back memories to Arthur. Images of fire and destruction; death and futile fighting. The faces of brothers-in-arms screaming out in pain as they were burned alive or crushed by falling masonry. Forgetting the now-frantic pulling of his horse for a moment, Arthur looked up through the gaps in the forest canopy to see the form he had come to hate - and thought to never see again, after the events of nearly four years ago - as it rapidly descended towards...the clearing. _Merlin!_

In his shock and fear for his friend, Arthur never felt the leather slip from his raw palms, nor noticed when the stallion - finally free - ran off into the darkness of the forest they had ridden through; followed a moment later by the brown mare, who had also managed to outwit or out-pull the man whose attention was held elsewhere. Drawing their swords, almost simultaneously, the two men ran forwards; towards the field where they could see the enormous reptile landing with a ground-shaking thud...right in front of the man they wanted, needed to protect.

Just as the King was about to break out into the open, however, two things struck him hard enough to bring him to a stuttering halt. Firstly, Merlin was not reacting in the manner he usually did, when faced with dire odds: running or cowering away. He was merely staring at the dragon. Staring at the castle-sized, fire-breathing, magical creature; calmly and patiently. Like he was waiting for it to... And then the second thing hit him; hard enough for his mouth to gape and all words of caution he was about to yell at the puny, dark-haired servant to snag in his throat. The dragon opened his mouth and spewed not flame, but words.

_It spoke. The bloody thing spoke! Hell, I didn't even known dragons could speak! Why did no-one ever tell me? Perhaps I could have tried reasoning with the one that attacked Camelot, instead of ineffectively defending against or attacking it, night after night._ Then Arthur shook his head at just how ridiculous that sounded, even if it was only in his head.

The sound of rapidly approaching footsteps and a loud gasp, drew Arthur back out of his thoughts and he instinctively grabbed at the knight, as he was about to rush out across the grass to come between his friend and enemy. Yanking the man to a crouch, behind a conveniently-placed - and thankfully thick - bush, Arthur turned to face Gwaine's questioning glare, with a finger held to his own lips, and a fierce command in his eyes to not rebel against his authority for once. Gwaine clenched his jaw, fighting the silent order, but grudgingly capitulated, and turned his face - at the same time as his superior - to watch the two occupants of the field avidly.

And listen. For blessedly, the rain had abated enough for the words that were spoken in the clearing to carry to its edges.

_What was that, the dragon had called Merlin? Emrys? Who's that? Certainly not person it had been applied to! So perhaps the dragon had mistaken Merlin for someone else. But then, why did Merlin not deny it was him? Only asked not to be called by that name? Warlock; what was one of those? How could Merlin be one?_ Arthur hunkered down, and crept forwards another inch or two, so as to see and hear a little better.

_And now, the idiot is arguing with the dragon. ARGUING with it! Like he did with...well, with me. At least, he used to._ Arthur felt a pang of jealousy ripple through him, and then almost laughed out loud at how absurd a notion it was to envy a dragon for having an altercation with his servant. But whether or not Merlin was this Emrys person was neither here nor there. The manner of their speech spoke volumes more than the words they exchanged. Because it was that of well known acquaintances, not strangers. And though Merlin's replies were more than a tad unfriendly, the same could not be said of his fellow dialogist.

But then, Merlin was shouting at..._Kilgharrah? The dragon? So not only could the thing talk, but it had a name. Which Merlin knew. Merlin, his skinny, clumsy, depressed servant: talking to and naming dragons!_ Never in a million years would Arthur believe he would witness such an event (never mind have one of the participants be a close friend!). Merlin, who was now sitting on the ground; his face hidden not in fear, but in wretchedness. And Arthur's heart panged once again for his friend. The dragon too, seemed to be affected by the young man's mood, as he drew closer to him, with a look of..._was that sympathy?_ _ Could a dragon sympathise with a human as well as destroy one with a single breath?_

And then Arthur realised that, at long last, Merlin appeared to be about to confess all his troubles. And though on the one hand, he was put out that his friend had opened up not to him, but some huge creature that looked awfully similar to the one that had attacked his city, on the other hand, he was relieved and eager to hear what the man had to say. _Mistakes? What mistakes? Sure, he was possibly the worst servant in the five kingdoms, and slipped up on a daily - no, more like hourly - basis, but how exactly did that affect anyone other than himself and their friends? Oh Gods, this is about me, isn't it? All of this mess is my fault; for baiting my servant, and overloading him, and then punishing him when he didn't complete the stupidly long list of chores with no break to eat or rest._ Arthur only just withheld the groan that was crawling up his throat, and settled for a huff of guilt instead.

His attention wandered slightly, at Merlin and the dragon's talk of paths and destiny and fate, while he started planning in his mind all the ways he could begin to make it up to Merlin; show him that despite his incompetence, he did appreciate him and would even - dare he admit it? - call him 'friend'. His concentration, however, was whipped back to the present at the mention of first, his estranged sister's name, and then, a heartbeat later, his too-soon departed father's. _What? Seriously, what did _they_ have to do with this? Magic, yes; you're right, Merlin. That _was_ the culprit, and as a result, I _do_ hate it. But not Merlin, no. Whatever gave him that idea? I might have lost my temper with you at times, because of your clumsiness and impertinence, or taken out my frustration on you, for no better reason than because you were there and would take the abuse without retaliation. But hate you? Never! That would be like saying I hate Gwen for her playful admonishments, or Gwaine for his blabber mouth and preference for recreation over duty._

_Oh, missed that. What was that about halves and holes and whoa! Merlin's shouting again. Does he really want to end up staring at the insides of a dragon's stomach? Done? What could he have possibly done to make me hate him? Wait a minute...killed? Merlin couldn't hurt a fly, never mind - Oh..._

Arthur's heart, lungs and stomach instantly froze. _Did he say magic? Magic? Merlin has magic? And what was that about harming my...sister, people, and...father? Wait a minute. Merlin has magic! He's a sorcerer? Stupid, bumbling, can't-even-cross-a-room-without-falling-over-his-own-feet Merlin is a fucking sorcerer! Which makes him a traitor._

It was happening again: his blind trust in someone had enabled them to creep up and slap him in the face. Okay, maybe in this instance, he had been the one doing the sneaking, but the result was the same. He had been betrayed again, by someone who had played on his sympathies; gotten under his skin, like a tick. And then sucked him dry. And as a result, he felt like an arid husk; empty and dead on the inside.

And just like that, Arthur's innards defrosted and carried on heating, until there was a roaring furnace of outrage and denial, coursing through his veins. Without conscious thought, he grabbed at the sword he had earlier laid down beside him, and was about to leap forwards, his face set hard and resolute, when a hand grasped his arm firmly. Arthur turned to his right; his indignation glaring at the owner of the hand, as he tried unsuccessfully to pull his arm away.

Gwaine returned his look of fury with one of pleading and whispered, "Don't, Arthur. Let's...let's hear him out, okay?"

Arthur was about to argue that after what Merlin had just confessed, there nothing more he wanted to hear. For what could a sorcerer possibly say of interest to him? And he had as good as admitted to his crimes, so further details of how they were carried out and why were not necessary. Magic was evil. Merlin had magic. Evil had to be stamped out for the good of the many; whoever the wielder of the magic was. He could not allow it to fester and roam his kingdom, taking its infection and spreading it wherever it touched. It was a disease, and the sword, fire, or axe was the cure. It was a foul-tasting medicine to swallow, but then that was the way of things, if they were to eradicate a plague. Sometimes you just had to hold your nose and drink it down quickly, before you had too great a chance to sample the taste.

But then again, Merlin wasn't going anywhere, was he? Nowhere he could not be followed, now he was within their sights. So there could not be too much harm in eavesdropping on the remainder of the conversation. Who knew what other things he might confess to (and thus make the antidote easier to go down). Though how any other crimes could quite outdo regicide, he couldn't fathom.

Arthur squatted back down on the ground, forcing the raging fire to dampen a degree or two; the clenching of his teeth and rock-hard hand on his sword hilt the only outward signs of the beast that was tearing at the bit to get out there and hit something. Or someone. He looked back across the view before them...and his heart leaped into his mouth.

_Is that dragon staring at me? No, can't be. It can't know we're here, can it? Can it smell us? Did it hear Gwaine speak? And now it's smiling! Why is it smiling? If a dragon smiles, does it mean it's happy or about to attack?_

Then Merlin started speaking again, and the dragon's attention was back on the dark-haired man, and the blond King gave a small sigh of relief; his pulse slowing just enough for him to begin breathing again. Until the beast suddenly reared up, snarling and breathing fire.

_Oh shit, it's going to attack! But who? The sorcerer or us?_ And Arthur was just deciding whether to put on some sort of defence (well it kind of worked before, except that last time, he had been wearing armour and carried a spear...) or to retreat back to Camelot (so that he could rally his men and return later with a _lot_ more knights and equipment to meet the threat), when the creature began speaking again to the sorcerer.

And called him a dragonlord. _A dragonlord? But they're all dead!_ He had witnessed the passing of the last one; who had died in the traitor's arms. _Oh Gods, did he do that? Did the sorcerer murder what should have been their last hope of defeating the dragon? Were his tears as false as his loyalty to his King? Had he assumed the title on the man's death, as well as his ability to command dragons? Is that why he was able to commune with this one, without fear of becoming its next meal?_

As Merlin and the dragon talked again of destiny and prophecy and magic, Arthur's attention drifted with the fugue of his contemplations into the sorcerer's past actions, he was drawn back to the conversation with a sudden jolt, as his own name was mentioned. Forcing his mind back to the present, he leaned forwards, so as to not miss another word; mindful of jostling the bush again, as he thought he may have done in his earlier recklessness. Where once he would vehemently deny it, now, he found he could not disagree with Merlin's assessment of the situation, and could not understand why the dragon would argue against it. No, he certainly did not need to have a traitor on his staff, and would not in a million years seek his council. But then, why did it sound as if this fact broke the sorcerer's heart? _I'm afraid it's a bit bloody late, Merlin! Your secret is out, whether you like it or not!_ The dragon did have a point though: why didn't Merlin tell him about his magic, if he _wanted_ to die? Unless that was yet another lie. Maybe his attempted suicide was nothing more than some dark and elaborate enchantment that had gone wrong. And those other cuts he had made on himself were...him practicing the spell?

But then why was Merlin showing remorse at the thought of Arthur discovering his treachery? Didn't his kind normally revel in gloating at the stupidity of the duped? Were they not glad to see the pain as the truth hit them; blow after blow, like an army of fists to the stomach? _This is just not making any sense. What is going on? Can this night get any weirder? And why is he bringing up that druid boy? All Merlin ever did was help the boy; he and Morgana, and then later yours truly._ Merlin had never lead him to any druids; the ones who had kidnapped Morgana did that. _What? Merlin knew about Morgana's magic? So did that mean they had been in league together since before she had tried to take the throne?_ But again, that didn't make any sense, because Merlin had helped him and his soon-to-be knights take it back. _Although, Morgana and Morgause did escape..._

By this time, the King's head was starting to throb, and he rubbed at his temple. Gwaine, mistaking the gesture for barely withheld grief, laid a comforting hand on Arthur's shoulder, only to receive a fierce glare, so he hastily retracted it. Merlin drew both of their attentions back to the field, when he began speaking of magic and choices, and Arthur's confusion increased tenfold. _What is he talking about? Of course he had a choice about magic!_ Even Arthur - meagre as his education into magical practices was (they being mostly how to recognise and vanquish the magically inclined) - knew that one had to study for many years to become a sorcerer. It took dedication and resolve. No-one could be forced to do it. Was Merlin still now lying through his teeth; even to his dragon cohort? Was it so ingrained in his personality, from his years of keeping the truth from those he was supposedly close to, that he could no longer help himself, or know fact from fiction?

_If this is the case, why does Merlin sound like he means every word, as he speaks of having no hope or choices in his life? And why does that bloody animal seem to be looking in my direction again, when it talks of being bound by duty...and smiling? But...but if it knows I'm here, why doesn't it reveal my presence to its dragonlord?_ _ If they're planning an end to my reign at some point, wouldn't _now_ be a good time to put their plan into action; when I'm all but alone and unprepared?_ Is the dragon able to hide things from its master? _ Is it going to double-cross the sorcerer; allowing him to be captured and taken back to Camelot for his execution? Only, it didn't seem all that keen on the idea of Merlin's demise. One thing's certain: father was wrong. To know the mind of one sorcerer does _not_ mean knowing them all. Because I don't have a clue what's going through the mind of _this_ one...or his pet!_

Suddenly, the sorcerer was drawing something from his pocket and holding it aloft for the dragon to see. At that distance, Arthur couldn't see what it was, but he could hazard a guess. The poison! His stomach rolled at this small reminder of why he had ridden there in the first place; so desperate to save his friend. Who no longer was one. His head was screaming at him that it must be a trick. All a part of this elaborate ruse the sorcerer was spinning for his associates. _Perhaps he never intended to actually drink it. But if not, what was his intention? He surely didn't need to threaten the dragon to do his bidding, if he had indeed assumed the abilities of a dragonlord. If his plan was to have the dragon attack Camelot, then he only needed to command it, didn't he?_

And now he _was_ commanding it to...not stop Merlin? _Stop him? Stop him from doing what? And what did he mean, his last order was to never attack Camelot? But that meant...it could only mean... And if he wants the dragon to protect me and prevent my sister from harming us, how could he be...? He wasn't, was he? Why do they keep mentioning this Emrys character anyway? The dragon seems so sure it is Merlin, but Merlin's adamant it isn't. Oh if only Gaius was here! _He_ would know what they were talking about. Come to think of it, he would probably be able to explain a lot of what was going on, because I'm damned if I understand a tenth of what they're saying. Why wouldn't a sorcerer want magic to return to the kingdom? Isn't that what they all want?_

Arthur's stomach added another twist to his guts at the horrible conclusion that Merlin seemed to be winding down the conversation with a goodbye speech. _Goodbye? As in, he would never see the dragon again?_ The beast's countenance definitely seemed to concur with this notion. _Eh? Lancelot met the dragon? When was that? And why didn't he mention it to his King? Is there no end to the people I trusted to my own detriment?_

Arthur scowled heavily at this, vowing to himself that from then on, he would take a leaf out of his father's book, and never allow himself to get close to anyone again. It seemed he was right all along: he could not afford to have any friends. Friends were people who one stupidly allowed to get close enough for them to stab you in the back. Maybe Lancelot's sacrifice was not the noble one they had all been lead to believe..._by Merlin, who else!_ _What if Lancelot only stepped into the veil out of guilt, for having kept secrets from his King? Perhaps he and Merlin were in cahoots, and Merlin betrayed him...pushed _him_ into the veil? But no, the dragon said that he had given his life for Merlin's as well as his leader. Assuming he could believe a word of what the dragon said! If he was aware that they were there, witnessing all this, could he be telling lies as well? If so, to what end?_

Arthur had no idea who Aithusa was, but Merlin did not want her found, so he could only assume it was another of his kind. Someone else with magic. Another threat to discover and destroy, for the good of his people. A moment later, Arthur realised that the dragon and sorcerer had ended their conversation, said their goodbyes and as they all watched, the creature launched itself into the sky. But before panic could seize control of all his bodily functions, at the fact that it was heading in his and Gwaine's direction, a deep, gravelly voice intruded on his consciousness.

_"Do not fail me, Pendragon!"_

And then it was skimming the tops of the trees behind them; the resultant wind almost stripping their bush of its coverage, and causing Arthur to throw a hand behind him to prevent himself from falling onto his back. Pushing himself back to his haunches again, Arthur looked to see where Merlin had got to, and he felt the blood drain from his face as he saw the man's attention once again snagged by what he still held in his hand. His body chilled further still, as his ex-friend seemed to come to a decision and reached to uncork the bottle.

"Oh no, you don't!" he whispered savagely; his teeth bared. And hefting his sword in his hand, he darted forwards, away from his hiding place.

Arthur had never sprinted faster than he did that night. In no time at all, he had reached the sorcerer's side, and without pausing to catch his breath or waver in his decision, he brought the hilt of his sword crashing down into the side of the man's head. He watched impassively as first the bottle and then the man fell to the ground; only allowing himself a moment's guilt at the thin trickle of blood that began to trail lazily down the side of the pale-skinned face, before he muttered bitterly. "If anyone's going to kill you, it'll be me."


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Thank you to everyone who is still reading, favouriting, following and reviewing this fic. I am, as ever, completely overwhelmed by the encouragement this provides me with to continue. And now I have a couple of apologies to make. Firstly, though this chapter does contain A confrontation, it is not THE confrontation I know a number of you have been hoping for. But fear not - that will be coming very soon now. Secondly, it is half-term this week, which means that I will have to spend more time entertaining my children instead of writing, so the next chapter might take me a wee bit longer to write. But hey, tomorrow's Merlin Day, so there's something to get excited about :O)  
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**Disclaimer: I DO own Merlin. No really, we got a couple of kittens last weekend, and my family allowed me to name one of them 'Merlin', so now I can genuinely say that I own Merlin. Okay, so he's a bit furrier than Colin, but equally cute :D  
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* * *

**Chapter 17**

The lone rider tore through the quiet of the forest; his dark brown mare's legs slicing through low-growing bracken and nudging squawking birds from their bushy perches, as they finished the encore of their dawn song. The sun had only risen an hour previously, but already the rider was three quarters of the way to his destination, having left the comfort of his bed long before the horizon had sprouted an orange blush, signalling the imminence of day.

The drum of the horse's hooves on the dry earth and her noisy exhalations were like an echo of the anticipation that pounded in the man's nerves and veins, at the thought of the news he carried and would soon pass onto his cohort, at their usual meeting place. This instance, at least, he could guarantee to bring pleasure, not scorn. This time, he would return to the place he now called home with a feeling of achievement, not failure.

He had tried so many times to earn his spurs. And yet nearly every time, he had been thwarted, pre-empted, or was downright unlucky. And rather than being treated with the patience and understanding, or even just the tiniest amount of forgiveness that he craved, he'd had contemptuous sneers and cold shoulders slapped in his face; to the point that he would sometimes find himself lying awake at night pondering whether the rewards he'd been promised were really worth the betrayal that was their price.

_Of course it is_, he would savagely admonish himself, as he tossed and turned on his bed of lies and deceit. _You made that pact more than two decades ago. A few little setbacks are to be expected and should not be cause enough to sway you from your goal. Especially when you are getting so close. Of course she will get angry and lash out. She's still affected by the arrogance and petulance of youth. Her ambitions were only set a handful of years ago, and for no greater reason than denial of her birthright._ Though now, at least, they had the death of a sibling - at the hands of a despised enemy - in common. She may not have known her sister for as long as he had known his, but the pain of their passing was equally acute, and provided a constant reminder of the vow for revenge made more steadfast than their sisters' hearts had been.

So no, he could wait; he would wait, unabashed by her disappointments, scowls and snide comments at his perceived ineptitude. Because aside from the sometimes empty-seeming promises she had tossed him, like a bone to a hungry dog, with all the power her skills and icy, dark beauty could flaunt, he had unyielding motives of his own to see him through the hindrances. And the report he would deliver this morning brought him one step closer to the realisation of their shared dream.

Pulling hard on the reins, he brought his mount to a skidding halt; moss and leaf mould flying up in a spectacular spray. Tying the panting, sweating horse to the usual withered husk of a tree, the black-clad man trotted down the soil-covered steps of the gully's slope, mindful of their slipperiness with the early morning moisture. With only a small rise in his heart rate, at the apprehension of being unexpected and therefore unwelcome, he pushed open the thin, large-gapped excuse for a door, and ducked down to enter the dark space beyond. Yes, he could have knocked, but he found it hard to silence that small voice of caution at the back of his mind that it was in his best interests to keep the upper hand - whenever the opportunity presented itself - with his co-conspirator, and leave as little time for her to prepare for his coming as possible. Plus, the less noble side of his psyche secretly hoped to one day catch her in a state of slightly less than full dress. He had so far been disappointed, which was beginning to lead him to the belief that she was using her skills to provide her at least some forewarning and was not actually as surprised by his appearances as she sometimes made out. Probably just trying to punish him for his presumption and lack of respect for her abilities, by flourishing that dagger - she prized so unhealthily - at his neck.

His eyes adjusted slowly to the musty dimness of the dank dwelling, until he could peer around root and ivy-strangled ceiling supports and bottle-encrusted shelves to try to spot his lady. The room appeared empty at first, and he wondered if perhaps she was out somewhere; gathering water from the nearby stream for her early morning ablutions, or some berries to supplement her breakfast. But then rounding a corner, he spotted her, seated at the table with her back to him. As tempting as it was, he decided to forego the momentary pleasure of making her jump, by announcing his presence from where he stood, and not directly behind her. No point in getting off to a bad start, when it was so early and damp, and she was no doubt sourly reminded of the luxury of warm, scented baths, freshly-cooked white bread and cured meats that would have greeted her each morning as a noblewoman, only a year and a half or so ago. Pottage and rye bread might be perfectly adequate to stave off starvation for the peasantry, but they were no meal for a lady born to rule.

"My lady," he therefore said, pitching his voice so as to gently nudge her ears, not blast them into telling her limbs to go on the defence. He saw the slender shape of her shawl-covered back tense, but other than that, she remained still and concentrating on whatever task she was performing at the table. Taking that as the only invitation he was likely to get to proceed, he walked the last few feet to be at her side, and looking down, saw that she was indeed breaking her fast on a bowl of something that looked distinctly unappetising.

His step-niece continued to scrutinise the half-empty bowl, dig out a spoonful and then lift it to her mouth; all the while seemingly ignoring the presence of the man who had invaded her privacy. Then, sliding the empty wooden utensil from her pale lips, she flicked it in the direction of the three-legged stool on the opposite side of the table; a grudging gesture for him to join her. She spared him only a cursory glance as he settled himself on the rickety seat, an embryo of a smirk pulling one side of her mouth at his obvious discomfort, before returning to consume her meagre meal. He realised it gave her no small amount of satisfaction for the knowledge that having left her former home so early, he would have had no chance to eat or - in his need for secrecy - take travel rations from the kitchens, and was therefore being reminded of his hunger by watching her eat; however plain her food was. And though she had spare slices of some verging-on-stale rye bread on a wooden cutting board in front of her, she made no move to offer him some; quite likely as an admonishment for visiting her unplanned and interrupting her breakfast.

So he waited patiently, buttocks going stiff on the unyielding stool, until at last, she had eaten her fill, and idly tossed the spoon into the bowl with a dull clunk. Running a tongue round her teeth to clear the last particles of stewed barley, she leaned into the high back of her chair and lifted an arched brow at him.

"What brings you here so early, Agravaine? Having trouble sleeping in that big, comfy bed of yours?" She took no pains to hide her resentment at the advantage he was taking of enjoying the opulence a nobleman at the court of Camelot could partake of, while she had been forced to hide in her less than salubrious abode.

"My lady," he repeated, bowing his head slightly; a small smile of sympathy, that nevertheless held a modicum of smugness, playing on his lips, "I bring news I believe you will find of great interest." He regarded her intently, awaiting her reaction to his words, with an only partially-masked impatience to divulge his juicy gossip.

After a moment or two of her playing with his nerves, she laced her fingers together before giving him another eyebrow signal to continue and, perhaps more importantly, ensure he lived up to his claim. "And?" she said, not bothering to be polite about it.

Clearing his throat nervously, and shifting again on the stool, he began to recount his tale - as he had witnessed or heard say - of the most recent events in Camelot. He spoke of a manservant who had attempted to take his own life, for which the sorceress' eyebrow found new heights to soar; accompanied by a tittering, almost maniacal giggle. He told of a King turned mad enough with worry to cut short council sessions and spend long hours ravaging training dummies, at which she snorted; her face made ugly by her look of disbelief and disgust. And finally he imparted a saga of a near-entire city turned upside down for a runaway servant, who was later brought back from the Darkling Woods, slung unconscious over the saddle of the King's horse.

"And so where is the King's favourite servant now?" she asked, her mouth curling into a semi-sneer as she pressed extra hate into the word 'servant', like it was something she had found swimming in the tea she was sipping delicately from a clay cup.

"The King," and here the dark-haired nobleman crossed his arms slowly and dramatically, only just remembering in time that the seat he was parked on had no back (and therefore stopping himself from leaning back on it for even more theatrical emphasis), "has had him locked up in the dungeon for the past two nights." He paused, allowing himself to bask in the full glory of the lady's double-take and look of shock that quickly morphed into glee.

Putting her cup down on the table top, she leaned towards him; a gesture that filled him with pleasure for the obvious joy his report had brought her, after so many failed attempts. "Did he say why?" she asked, this time with both eyebrows raised.

"No," he said, with a small shake of his head, but noticing her sudden slackening of interest, he barrelled ahead with the remainder of his tidings, leaning towards her urgently. "Arthur has forbidden anyone but the physician to see him; and that, only for enough time to tend his wounds."

"Wounds?" she cut in, her pale eyes conveying her malicious hope of something grave.

"According to witnesses, he had a head wound - presumably it is what caused him to lose consciousness - plus the previous one from his attempted suicide."

At that, the sorceress looked mildly disappointed, and picked up her cup again to take another sip, a faraway look in her eyes. "And Arthur?" she said, her eyes still staring - slightly glazed - at the rim of the cup.

"Has locked himself in his chambers, and will not see anyone; not even his knights or Guinevere." Her eyes widened again in amazement, and so, with a full and wicked smile of his own, he carried on. "He has the whole council in uproar for the meetings and appointments he has cancelled. I myself had to postpone until further notice a knighting ceremony he was due to carry out yesterday. Whatever it is the _boy_ has done this time, Arthur is beside himself, and it is affecting his judgement."

"And we must take advantage of it," she said, her head creased by a single frown line, while her eyes shone with plotter's lust.

Agravaine smiled fondly at the sight of the determination and desire that was blossoming throughout her whole body again, awakening the beautiful, intelligent noblewoman who lay hidden under the cold, bitter exterior of the wronged sorceress. He sat, patient and eager - his hunger and doubts a long forgotten memory - for her to finish formulating her plan before choosing to divulge it to him, and hand him his part in the affair. After only a few minutes of seemingly staring into space, she smiled a smile that continued to grow, as she mentally finalised the details, and then raised her eyes to meet his ready gaze.

"Your man, is he ready?" she said.

Agravaine quickly shaped his initial expression of surprise and confusion into one of pride. "And awaiting your orders, my lady."

She gifted him with a small smile and nod of acknowledgement, before sliding her features back into the portrait of devious anticipation that sent his blood coursing through his veins and a carnal twitch to his loins.

"Then this is what you will have him do."

* * *

Sir Leon was not by nature a fearful man. As first a squire and then a knight of Camelot for more than half his life, he had seen, participated in, and survived enough battles to never claim the title of coward; even if he was to hang up his gauntlets, get married, start a family and turn to farming as a career for the remainder of his life. The knights, guards, noblemen and servants respected him; not only as the King's second in command and a seasoned soldier. Nor was it only because he was one of the dwindling number of Noble knights, as the positions made available - when his brothers-in-arms were lost to battle and old age - were increasingly being filled by commoners (there were, after all, only so many noble families with sons of an appropriate age to swell the upper ranks of Camelot's army). And it was attributable by only a certain amount to the fact that he was a member of Arthur's unofficial, but generally well reputed 'Knights of the Round Table'; that small group of the favoured few who were most frequently selected to accompany the King on trips for pleasure as well as business.

No, it had been made apparent to him - after many a companionable pat on the back, or admiring remarks passed in the armoury, tavern or around a camp fire - that a lot of the respect he had gained over the years was from having the courage to speak out, when he disagreed with his leaders' methods or words. He had stood up to an enchanted and love-drunk Uther, when he had not been able to see past his troll-wife's glamour to accept the absurdity of stripping his son's title as Crown Prince. He had risked the wrath of said Prince, by allowing his manservant to enter the room he had been strictly forbidden from letting anyone pass into; thus preventing him from murdering his father in a sorcery-induced haze of hate. He had refused to bow to the anointed Queen of Camelot, when Morgana had imprisoned her father and chased away her brother; even after she had incarcerated him and his fellow knights - who remained loyal to Uther - and then had turned on the people of Camelot as a means of persuasion to her cause. And when Arthur was on the verge of abandoning their quest to heal the veil and vanquish the Dorocha, for the sake of a mortally wounded servant - even one he regarded as highly as he did Merlin - Leon had had no qualms about reminding the then-Prince of his higher duty to his people; ensuring that they completed their journey to the Isle of the Blessed. Though it had pained him to play such a major role in parting the Prince from one he still would not admit to holding so dear - after all Merlin's years of showing the same level of faith and loyalty as any sworn knight - Leon had again stood by his duty and beliefs; even if it meant putting his own standing with Arthur at risk.

Leon was not entirely convinced that the praise he received from his colleagues was deserved, given that it was based on acts of what could easily be defined as insubordination; something he had never been particularly encouraging of in others, or was comfortable with in himself. But at least he could sleep more restfully at night, knowing he'd done the _right_ thing.

However, even with all these instances of proving his valour and strength of conviction to back his resolve, he could not calm the fluttering in his heart and stomach at what he must face today. Even if he had not been chosen by means of a show of hands from the other Knights of the Round Table, and not had a conversation with a tearful Guinevere, nor seen a very old-looking and worried Court Physician make his way slowly back up the steps from the dungeons, he would still be making this journey to the King's chambers. Just maybe in another day or two, to give time for his bravado to bloom a bit more. Because he had no idea what he would find behind that heavy oak door, and this time, there was no loose-lipped manservant to question beforehand, in order to gauge the mood of his sovereign. Leon had tried speaking to Merlin's replacement a few times, since he had been designated the only person to be allowed to pass through the doors - and only then to bring and clear away meals in the shortest time possible - but the only response he had received was a very stuffy "The King is indisposed". And he could only hazard a guess as to what _that_ meant.

Like their other friends, he had attempted to gain more insight into the events of that night, when a very sullen, wet and silent Arthur and Gwaine had returned to the castle, and taken an unconscious Merlin down to the cells. But though said knight had looked for all the world like the information would just burst out of him if he didn't release it soon, he would not explain why he carried around a face that looked like it could boil an ocean, and why the King had locked his best friend up like a criminal. The only answer he would give - if pressed - was a "Don't ask me, ask his highness. I don't understand this anymore than you!" before he went back to broodily nursing his first and only tankard of ale. And then only an hour later, would excuse himself to leave the tavern; his face a dark storm cloud. The fact that he did not stay to complete his usual drink and flirtation-filled evening, as per his usual routine, worried the band of brothers far more than an obnoxiously-loud rant about the King would have done.

A visit to the quiet physician's chambers shed no further light on the matter. For even after returning to consciousness, his ward had said very little; other than to answer - in as few syllables as possible - the level of pain his head was experiencing and how many fingers were being held before his face. He had said nothing of what had happened in the woods or why he had run out there in the first place. But his lack of indignation or shock at his predicament suggested that there was much more to tell; if only he was willing and his mentor was granted more than the time necessary for a physical examination to speak with him.

But enough was enough. The castle was atwitter once again with scandalous whispers and demoralised glances, and more than one noble had approached Leon, asking after his opinion of the King's mental state. The first knight was horribly reminded of the upheaval and dispirited atmosphere that had hung over the city for the year following Morgana's dethronement; when every day, her father had become weaker and less in touch with the world. Leon never again wanted to witness the effects of the double burden on Arthur's shoulders, as he struggled to cope with the slow demise of his only remaining parent and the increasingly heavy responsibility that he was duty-bound to take on; despite his refusal to be named King. It had been painful to see that happen as a subject; even more so as a friend. And had it not been for Merlin's constant presence, persistently perky remarks, and strangely wise words of advocacy, Leon shuddered to wonder whether Arthur would have made it as far as his coronation, without going mad himself. If anyone had had doubts of the closeness of the King and servant's friendship before, the past year or so had put paid to them all.

Which made recent events all the more confusing to behold. First Merlin had shut himself off from his friends, and now his master was following suit. Leon did not like to include the word 'sorcery' in a sentence. Too many years spent avoiding its mention, on pain of a severe punishment from their previous monarch, had almost eradicated it from his personal vocabulary. But it had not taken much for the knight to begin pondering that the strangeness of the circumstances more than pointed to magic being the probable cause. For what else was evil enough to destroy such an unbreakable friendship and bring the Kingship so close to the threat of disrepute?

Leon marched down the echoing halls with a hint more determination in his stride, his intent to not leave until a solution had been found to this miniature crisis newly bolstered. He was therefore startled, to the point of sharply in-taking a breath, when he passed a staircase and almost bulldozed through a clearly out-of-breath Gaius, just reaching its zenith.

"Gaius," Leon used his name as an apology, as he reached out both hands to steady the old man; lest he return down the stairs in a faster and less organised state than he had ascended them. The physician's small nod of dismissal at their near-collision did nothing to disguise his less than healthy or happy appearance to the concerned noble, and with a firmer squeeze of the bony old shoulders, Leon frowned and said, "What's wrong? Is it Merlin?"

Gaius merely nodded again, his pale lips pressed into a tight line and a thin sheen of sweat dotting his creased brow. "I need to see the King," he said, his voice rough from exertion and vexation and his eyes looking like the floodgates were barely holding back a threatening torrent of tears.

_Perfect!_ Leon thought, _just the backup I needed._ "Then let us away together," he said, gesturing in the direction he'd been headed.

The knight could not help himself from stealing small glances at his travelling companion, as they bustled down the remaining corridors without speaking; the only sound their quickened breaths and reverberating footsteps. Each stolen look did nothing to reassure Leon of the benevolence of the physician's mission. The old man's taut jaw and flared nostrils left Leon with no doubts that he meant business as much as he himself did. _Good: between us we should have whatever this is resolved in no time, and we can go back to a state of affairs where Kings attended - not cancelled - scheduled meetings, and took part in training sessions, instead of delegating the task._

At Sir Leon's command, the guards - who stood sentry at the end of the corridor where the King's chambers resided - were only too happy to move to a position in the next hallway along. They were reassured enough by the senior knight's presence, when it came to defending their sovereign, to not question it. As he came to stand in front of the closed oak door, Leon couldn't help swallowing hard to brace himself. But he reminded himself that a knight's first duty was to his country - even before his King - and it was in Camelot's name (as much as for the earnest friendships he'd come to treasure) that he did this.

The knight raised a gloved fist and rapped smartly three times on the wooden panel; the sound ringing within as well as without the room - leaving no doubt that it would have been heard by the intended party. Beside him, he more felt than heard the physician shuffle on his worn out feet, as they waited for an acknowledgement of their presence. When no answering call came or footsteps approached, the two loiterers regarded each other; a silent look of exasperation passing between them, and as if an agreement was thusly made, Leon raised his hand to knock again. Hard enough this time to make his knuckles smart, even through the reinforced fabric of his gloves.

When still no answer came, Leon leaned in closer to the wooden surface and called, "Sire, are you there? Are you hurt?" He pressed an ear to the door, straining to hear even the slightest sound that would give him permission to fetch an axe or more muscle to break down the door. But he heard nothing: no footsteps, sounds of a struggle, calls for help, or yells to be gone. So, he tried again. "Please sire, you cannot abandon your duties any longer; your people need their King," he glanced back at the physician and swallowed down the lump of guilt that rose in his throat for his sudden impetus to 'pass the buck', but went ahead anyway. "And Gaius also has something of the utmost urgency to discuss with you." He winced but didn't look at the accusatory eyebrow he knew would be lifting one side of the physician's forehead.

But a few seconds later, he was glad of his cowardly act, when they both heard the sound of the key turning in the lock on the other side of the door. They glanced at one another again, each a mirror for their small grins of satisfaction and sighs of relief at their success, before Leon reached out and slowly turned the handle of the door; as if at any moment, it would be wrenched out of his grip in punishment for his presumption. They followed the course of the door into the room and Gaius quietly closed it behind them, as Leon advance forwards; seeking his master. He didn't have far to look: Arthur was standing by the window straight ahead of them; leaning against the wall and staring down at the courtyard.

"Sire," Leon said, approaching the window cautiously; as if the King was a rabid dog who could turn on them with very little provocation. As he came level with the silent man, he saw that a fine sprinkling of stubble covered his clenched jaw, and that his hair had been raked through so many times it resembled nothing short of a bird's nest. His skin was pale and slightly greyish, and by the deep shadows beneath his dulled eyes, the knight could see that whatever sleep the man had partaken of had been very short and not the slightest bit restorative.

The King's voice - when it came - was quiet and rough, as if it had been used to tear through a mountain range or joust with a thunderstorm. "I said I was not to be disturbed, Leon." There was only the smallest hint of reprimand in his tone, giving his words the value of a tired and too often-repeated statement, rather than an admonishment.

Nevertheless, Leon bowed and mumbled his apology, "I'm sorry, Sire, but this could not wait." He glanced back at Gaius, who had not moved closer than the middle of the room, and stood clasping his hands within his sleeves; empathy and need warring in his hooded eyes. "We couldn't wait," he added, turning back to the King. "The council are growing concerned at your refusal to attend a session, and though Lord Agravaine is only too happy to take your place, there are matters to discuss for which the King's presence is essential."

At that, Arthur snorted derisively, but gave no further comment, nor did his attention stray from the spot outside that it had been fixed upon, since before they had gained entry to his inner sanctum. So Leon decided to carry on while the going was good; or at least less angry. "Further to that, Sire, I could do with your advice with regard to one or two of the new recruits. I have been keeping an eye on Breuse and Jonathas, as you suggested, but no matter how much time I spend trying to improve their footwork and stance, there is still something lacking." He smiled slightly, even though he knew the King couldn't see his face. "I do not have your knack for bringing out the best in people, my lord."

Arthur arched an eyebrow and turned his head just enough to look across to his knight, surprised at his use of flattery and odd excuse for an exigent audience with him, but on seeing Leon's genuine - if small - smile, his own mouth twitched in an attempt to return it. Not very successfully, but Leon inwardly beamed at this visible sign of his miniature triumph. It gave him a breath of air to ignite the spark of courage and press that little bit further into the King's personal space.

Grasping the pommel of his sword to ground himself against a possible back-lashing, he said "Sire, what happened," he bit his lip nervously before blundering on ahead with the name he was so loathe to mention, for fear of exacerbating the King's distress, "and what does this have to do with Merlin?"

As soon as the last word had finished exiting his lips, the King reacted. What was left of the small smile dropped from his face like a stone; his eyes narrowed to smouldering slits and his brow slashed with creases. The room itself seemed to cool a degree or two, and Leon suppressed a shiver.

"Thank you, Sir Leon, for bringing this to my attention," he said, his voice cold enough to freeze the lake of Avalon on a summer's day. "Please inform Lord Agravaine that I will attend tomorrow's council session, and I shall be along later this afternoon to inspect the trainees." When Leon opened his mouth to speak, Arthur held his tongue stationary with an even steelier glare. "That will be all, _Sir_Leon."

As willing as he was to challenge the thoughts of royalty, Leon knew a lost cause when he saw one, and he was not so stupid as to tarnish his loyal image when his opinion had most definitely been rejected as unwelcome. And so mapping his features into a look of obeisance, rather than the sorrow he felt at having failed in his mission to get to the bottom of the King's despondency, Leon bowed and turned to leave. He was just passing Gaius, who had remained silent and still all this time, when the old man seemed to wake up and stepped forwards to speak; taking the space the knight had just vacated.

"Sire," he said, his voice urgent in its appeal to not be silenced as Leon's had been, despite the King's unreceptiveness to the subject it was obvious he wished to discuss. "I must speak to you about Merlin."

Arthur had the good grace to look marginally guilty at the mention of his prisoner's name by the man's guardian. A man who was no stranger himself to being thrown in the dungeon with very little evidence of having committed a crime. The only one his ward appeared to have perpetrated was sneaking past a sleeping guard and not telling anyone where he was going. The King pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed heavily, his eyelids clamped tight; as if by doing so, he could make the man he least wished to face in his kingdom disappear.

"Gaius, this is not a good time," he said with a weary sigh.

"And just when will be a good time, sire?" Gaius asked, crossing his arms; his frown hardening into a glare and his voice that of the mentor catching a seven-year-old prince attempting to play a trick on his latest serving boy (involving a potion for constipation stolen from the court physician's medicine supply). "Merlin has been detained for reasons known only to yourself. What the hell could he have done to be treated this way by a friend?"

"Friend?" the King guffawed bitterly. "Hardly!"

Gaius was taken aback by his attitude, his lopsided brow raised in consternation. "Yes, Arthur, your _friend_. A friend you have bound with the Drýcræft Gebinden." Arthur looked shocked at the physician's recognition of the items in question, which quickly brought a slight blush of shame to his cheeks, before he looked away. "A friend who now lies sick, thanks to your hospitality and neglect." The old man spat this last sentence out waspishly, and when Arthur tried to meet his gaze - with a concerned query in his own eyes - he looked away, as if looking any longer upon the face of his foster-son's jailer would make him release his stomach's contents violently.

"Sick?" Arthur said, his tone ripe with disbelief. "Since when? He was fine -"

"When?" the physician tore the rest of his sentence off, his voice rising with his anger. "When you last saw him? That was nearly three days ago, _Sire_." He uttered the title like he had been taking lessons in insurrection from a certain long-haired knight who had a penchant for fluids of an uninhibiting nature. "Three days of being kept in a dark, damp cell, wearing soaking wet clothes, following a concussion in a body still weakened from blood-loss, and - thanks to his refusal to eat anything - which grows weaker by the day!"

Arthur took a step back and tripped into a chair that was leaning against the wall behind him; his face paling at his life-long friend's accusations, in a yell that could easily have rivalled his father's at its most disciplinary and disappointed. The King put his head in his hand and used the heel of it to try and rub away the fatigue-induced headache that was suddenly flaying his nerves. Hearing the slow, measured steps of the physician as he drew closer to him, he released his puckered brow and looked up at the frazzle-haired man staring coldly down at him.

"Whatever it is you think he's done, I'd say Merlin agrees with your verdict. And unless you talk to him - convince him otherwise - he's going to take his punishment in his own hands."

Arthur pushed a a long exhalation of air out his nostrils, and looked down at the hands he had clasped together and hung over his knees; his face a battlefield for the doubt and enmity that waged war on it.

When the court physician's voice intruded on his thoughts again, it had returned to its gentle suggestion of ancient wisdom and patience; with a touch of sadness thrown in for good measure. "This cannot go on for much longer, Arthur; there is only so much my tonics can do to sustain him. Another few days and I fear it'll be too late." And with that, the old man gave a small, slow bow, before turning and leaving the room; the click of the door latch resounding loudly in the deathly quiet room, like the mournful toll of a Passing Bell.


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: Happy Merlin day everyone! Sorry it's been a while. Thank you again for all the wonderfully motivating reviews, favourites and follows. This chapter is dedicated to Veilwuarrah, without whose kind support and perseverence, it would probably not be published. Hope you have a fabulous holiday, my dear!**

**I'm still really unsure about this, but after chewing and regurgitating it so many times, it's hard to see what else I can change, so have decided to just go with it. Please, though, consider this to be part A of what you are hoping to read...part B will have the rest of it ;O)  
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**Disclaimer: If I owned Merlin, we wouldn't have this stupid Gwen-centric story arc (sorry to all her fans out there, but she's just not one of my favourite characters). Since I don't, I just have to hope there's enough whump, angst and bromance to make up for it!  
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**Chapter 18**

Magic. The word made him shudder involuntarily, in the same manner as he would to the words 'rape', 'child molestation' or 'torture'. All his arguments kept coming back to it, despite his many attempts to veer off on a tangent. No matter how much time he spent wrangling with the facts, the one he returned to over and over again was that magic could in some way be attributed to nearly every crime that had been committed against him and the ones he loved: his family, his men, and his people. Every time he thought he had been fighting in a fair fight, magic reared its ugly head and flaunted its involvement in all its conniving, underhanded deviousness.

Magic did not play by the rules; it did not play fair. All the things he had been taught about how to fight - whether it was one-on-one combat or an army of thousands - there were rules, codes of chivalry, customs to adhere to and respect. A truce or settlement would always be offered, and surrender allowed under honourable terms. Time would be given for each side to consider their options and strength; for innocent bystanders to be allowed to get to a safe distance. And the attack - should negotiations fail - would always start with a clear signal to proceed; a flag waved or arrow released or horn blown. It was just and right and allowed combatants to know what to expect.

But the same could not be said for magic. It was the weapon of the unfavoured few, struck without notice, and always had an unpredictable outcome. Magic could break mountains and level cities. It could slaughter a hundred men in one breath or bring back the dead with another. It was an unnatural and unholy force. And those who wielded it did so for a selfish - not honourable - cause. They were corrupt and sought to spread their corruption to others, and thus increase their own power; spread their wickedness and their lies. For users of magic _were_ liars. They could not turn followers to their ways through honest persuasion and deserved reward. So they whispered their falsehoods in back alleys and under hooded cloaks and through enchanted guises; darkening the hearts of those they touched with their black, forked tongues, until they too became foetid and rotten and wrong.

Without magic, they would all be able to sleep much better at night than he had, since discovering his servant's darkest secret. His lies. His betrayal. His magic.

Magic was ruthless and heartless. It didn't care how many people it stole from him, or how much they meant to him. And yes, he could admit how much Merlin had meant to him; 'had' being the operative word. Because now Merlin was not Merlin. Merlin had been stolen from him, as surely as his mother, sister, father, and countless comrades-in-arms had been, over the years. As with them, the hope of seeing his old friend again, as he had known him, was swiftly dwindling to the dimmest ember. The ember still glowed inside him; trying to motivate him to blow on it, ignite the flame and go to see Merlin. Thus proving to himself the man he cared for_ was_still there.

But he was afraid. Yes, Arthur Pendragon had found something that scared him; more than any battle, challenge, or magical beast ever could. He was afraid of losing hope. Hope that he had been wrong in what he'd heard that night. Hope that Merlin had been lying to the dragon. Hope that his servant had done what he said he did against his will, and therefore he could still be redeemed. Hope that this was all just a bad dream, and any moment, he would wake up to his idiot friend throwing his curtains open and some witty remark too loudly in his direction, as he dragged him – grumbling and protesting – from his warm bed to face the day; together as usual.

But it was not to be. For he had not slept, and Merlin was locked in a cell by his friend and master; probably not sleeping much either, as he waited for his circumstances to change. Whether that was to be burned, flogged, banished or forgiven. And much as Arthur hated to have his wrong doings thrown in his face – especially by one he respected as he did Gaius – his conscience would not let him forget the old man's words and the tone in which they had been uttered. Because that had been as much of a shock to him as learning of Merlin's deteriorating health. He could probably count on one hand the number of times in his life the Court Physician had raised his voice to him (and most of the other instances, he had been much younger, and the loud admonishment was expected and deserved).

The question remained, however: was Merlin truly a casualty of the war against magic, or was he one of its agents? Had he freely made the choice to go down the dark path of venality, or had he been coerced into parting with his humanity - his goodness - in a moment of weakness? And did it ultimately make a difference? For magic was still intolerable and unlawful; however it was gained. If it was not stamped out, and an example made of its user, how were others to be deterred from succumbing to its influence? How was he to maintain his rule and prove his worth to the many naysayers and opportunists who were only too eager to spot a weakness in his ability to lead and exploit it to his detriment and their gain?

Only last week, he had had to defend his decision to _not_ call to arms and dispatch a troupe of his knights, to deal with rumours of a sorceress who had supposedly set up her home in a shack on the edge of the forest. The evidence had been presented in the form of a disgruntled travelling tradesman, who after having attempted to sell the woman a cure for warts and bunions, was sent packing; with a frying pan and a curse for his fraudulence wielded in his face. Even after his 'life-threatening' boils had been reduced to only a slight rash by one of Gaius' salves (who was convinced that the peddler had simply had a nasty reaction to one of his own 'cures', which could have leaked from its container and unknowingly smeared on his hands) the case had not been solved, as far as one or two members of his council were concerned. For the remainder of that session, Arthur had had to turn a deaf ear to the not so quiet whispers that if his father was still alive, he would not have rested until the woman had been hunted down and turned into a human torch.

What would those old dissidents say now, if they knew that not only had he harboured a sorcerer in his own household for the past seven years, but that the man was still alive? Apart from calling for the man's immediate cessation of life, they would probably be having serious doubts about Arthur's ability to rule, if after withdrawing himself from the world for two days he was still unable to come to terms with it and decide what to do. But Arthur had realised that this was one of those occasions when he had to cut himself off from all influences and distractions, and think things through for himself. He knew too many people of his acquaintance would be only too eager to offer their opinion on the matter, and persuade him to their cause. And under normal circumstances, he would be more than happy to listen to all their pleas and arguments, in order to help him to come to an informed decision. But this time, matters were different. This time it was his best friend's life at stake, and it was Arthur, personally, who had been deceived; for the entire time he had known the man, as he had already - if unwittingly - confessed.

And that hurt; more than he cared to say. More than finding out that the woman he had spent the greater part of his youth alongside - and treated as a sister - was not only an actual blood relative, but also despised her family enough to imprison their father and deny the throne from her brother. It hurt more than the time when the same woman's sister had made him believe that his father had first requested the use of magic to assist in his son's creation, and then allowed it to steal his mother from him; after he had barely taken his first breath. And, dare he even admit, it hurt more than looking into the eyes of his remaining parent and watch the light fade from them; drawn out once again by a sorcerer's curse.

For this man - the one he had only recently started to acknowledge as more than a servant, and not just any friend - was someone he had shared too many private moments and personal fears and dilemmas with, to simply brush himself down and leave their past behind, as a one-off bad decision he had made. This was a man he had been prepared to die for, on more than one occasion, and who (according to him) had risked his life for him in return. Arthur could not help but be reminded of all those times when Merlin had been sent to the stocks, thrown in a dungeon and risked being sacked, flogged or worse, to cover for, defend or argue against his master.

Was it possible that he had been lying in every single one of those instances? He had never come across as being that good a liar, but then if he had been a sorcerer all along, did Arthur really know him? They were masters of deception, after all. 'Never trust a sorcerer', his father had said. He hated to admit that his younger self had been naive to flaunt the advice of someone as paranoid as his father had been, when it concerned all things magical, but it turned out that this was yet another example of the one with greater experience being right. And if that was the case on this matter, what other pieces of advice had he ignored over the years that he was yet to be proved equally callow about?

Perhaps the malcontents were right: he was not fit to be King. If he could be wrong about so fundamental a thing. The only person he would usually trust to give him an honest opinion on this dilemma was the very one who now sat in prison; dying, if his guardian was to be believed. And even if he did seek his advice, for old time's sake, could he really trust anything that was said. For that matter, had anything Merlin ever said to him contained anything resembling truth?

_Am I doomed for all my days to only attract deceivers, sycophants and fortune-hunters to be by my side? Must I - like my father - always be so friendless and alone?_

With a sharp clench to his heart, Arthur blinked; dazed, as if he had just woken from a deep sleep (_chance would be a fine thing!_), and found himself staring at the stone archway that spanned the top of the steps leading down to the dungeon. Somehow, his feet had taken over the task of navigating his body down the corridors and stairs, while his head was otherwise occupied. The shock, of finding himself somewhere he couldn't be sure he had intended to be, jarred him to a halt; his heels scuffing on the generations-scrubbed stone slabs.

For several minutes, he stood in the quiet hallway; staring straight ahead, as if the arguments he needed to cogitate were etched into the walls...and he was reading them very slowly. Every now and then, he would start to lean forwards, his heart having come to a decision. But then his head would form a counter-attack and grind his foot into his boot to halt his progress. Then he would clench his fists at another solution thwarted; the need for a better petition born.

Arthur's silent battle was interrupted at that moment by the sound of boots scraping on steps. The King drew a small, sharp breath, his eyes wide and cheeks highlighted by two red blooms, as the head of a guard appeared from below and continued to rise into view. Arthur took a step back to allow more space for the man to enter the upper echelons of the castle.

"Sire," the guard - who had likely just finished his vigil of the dungeon - bowed his head, as he came level with the King.

Arthur gave a curt nod and pursed-lipped smile in return, as the man passed; his indecisiveness still holding him firm to the spot. It was only an intuitive feeling that made him turn his head to see the guard had stopped half way down the hallway to look over his shoulder at the oddly-stationary King; a confused frown peering out from below his helmet. Recognising the likelihood for yet more gossip about the King's queer behaviour to be brought into fruition, Arthur's heart took the opportunity to beat his head's argument into submission and force him to begin his descent.

As he reached the last flight of steps, Arthur noticed that the reverberations of his boots were being transcended by a rather more ominous sound. Even from this distance, the cough sounded thick, wet and painful. Arthur winced as a wave of guilt swept out from his stomach, and he had to clutch at the iron rail to halt the near-stumble that - at the very least - would have given him a few grazes, as well as further cause to be embarrassed in front of his guards. The two, who sat playing a game of dice at the little table at the bottom of the stairwell, looked up at the change in foot rhythm, and on seeing who had created it, made a non-melodious sound of their own, with scraping stool legs and clinking chain mail, as they stood to attention.

Arthur nodded to them solemnly and then paused beside the small tableau of alert expectation. "You're dismissed," he said.

The guards looked at each other slowly, and then the shorter and rounder of the two said, with a questioning furrow to his brow, "Sire, surely we shouldn't-"

But he was cut off by the King's angry glare and cold voice as it firmly snapped, "I said go. Now!"

And that was all the reassurance they needed that their services were not required - for the duration of the King's visit at least - and they hastily collected weapons, abandoned their game and started to make the long climb out of their workplace.

Arthur's loitering, while he waited for the sound of the two pairs of feet to disappear above, was serenaded by the return of the stomach-curdling cough. If anything, it sounded worse than it had before he had reached ground level, and his head automatically swivelled in the direction that the noise had emanated from. Steeling himself with a heavy release of breath, he forced his legs into motion again; his steps slow and reluctant.

The coughing had stopped before he had reached his destination, although he didn't need it in order to locate the desired cell. All the others stood vacant, and the King was relieved that it meant there would be no audience to jeer or comment on the proceedings. He had enough of his own conflicting thoughts and emotions to contend with. Nearing the furthest, darkest, most disused cell in the dungeon, his stomach twinged with a jolt of self-recrimination at the subconscious decision he had made three nights previously, while the more logical part of his brain had still been reeling from the events it had witnessed and been beaten to a pulp by. On the one hand, he could empathise with himself for wanting to put the sorcerer as far away from civilisation - from himself - as was physically possible. But on the other hand - and on a more subliminal level - he knew what a ridiculous notion that was, as well as a thoughtless one; for more than one reason. Incarcerating the man so deep in the dungeon meant that he had further to walk to speak to him, and the Physician's old bones had a greater distance and cold to overcome to attend to his wounds. However, it did mean that the prisoner would have had fewer opportunities to see and be seen by the guards, and in this, Arthur allowed himself a small reprieve from his guilt. If the sorcerer could not see his wardens, he could not interact with them, and therefore bind them to his will with his silver tongue; giving him a chance to escape justice for his crimes. Arthur could not allow that. The wicked had to be punished to spare the innocent.

He reached the cell, with his heart pounding from something other than exertion. Anger? Anticipation? Fear? Whatever it was, he would meet it head on. As King, he would not be cowed by any man; even one he used to call 'friend'. Though the word now tasted acrid on his tongue. Arthur resealed the last gaps in the stone wall he had built around his heart over the last couple of days. The anxious frown on his brow morphed into an impenetrable shield of coolness and determination; his eyes two hard gems in a rock face, glaring at any that would dare to challenge his will and authority. Feeling ready at last to meet the cause of his sleeplessness and abandonment of duty, Arthur took the last step towards his destination and looked in.

For a moment, the cell appeared to be empty, and two bolts - first of fear and then of anger - lanced his chest. His narrowed eyes darted from side to side, then up and down; scanning every inch of the gloom, until at last they caught on a hint of movement in the shallow pile of straw, which had long since given up on its demands to be replaced by dint of its sour smell, and now just looked as limp and spent as the body that laid upon it.

The human form shifted again and then jerked, as it was racked with rib-bruising coughs. Coughs that rolled one into another, like a stormy tide; battering the rocks beneath it relentlessly. Arthur began to fear that the bearer of the coughs would pass out from having his air torn from his lungs before it could impart its life-giving oxygen, and he unconsciously suspended his own chest's swell and ebb in nervous sympathy. But at last, the desperate, wet hacks faded, to leave the man in the straw gasping and sniffing weakly. Arthur inhaled deeply with relief, then taking a loose grip of an iron bar in each hand, he leaned forwards; resting his head on the space between another two bars, so as to get close enough to scrutinise the prisoner and gain a better understanding of the seriousness of his condition. He was never a man to take another's word for gospel without proof; particularly when the bearer of bad news was emotionally involved, and their judgement thusly affected.

Something at the corner of his peripheral vision caught his eye, and he turned to look at it. There, on a spot only a stride into the cell, was a small pile of bread, in various stages of staleness and decay. Six pieces, to be exact. And Arthur realised, with a prickling sensation, that there was one for each meal the man had been given since he had arrived. An unorthodox tallying system. Given, but not eaten. Gaius' words from that morning buzzed in his head; an irritating insect that he was powerless to swat. Arthur swallowed hard, knowing that soon enough, the rats would summon the courage to creep past their fellow cell-mate and devour the only evidence of the length of his stay; leaving the calendar of his imprisonment unmarked. Forgotten.

He glanced back to the man - his back still turned towards him, while the communicating side faced the mould-dotted rear wall - and watched the tiny movements that indicated the sorcerer continued to live. Like all inhabitants of the dungeon, his former friend still wore the clothes he had been wearing the night his freedom was taken from him; and like the others in his position, they had been marred by small tears and copious smears of dirt from the filth in which he lay. His hair too was dishevelled and slightly matted, with a mixture of bodily fluids and grime. Bile rose in Arthur's throat at the thought of what creatures could now be sharing the man's hair and garments. _Because _I_ put him there._

And now that the time had come to break his silence, he wasn't entirely sure how, or if he really wanted to. Was he ready to open this very ripe can of worms? His fractious mind sifted through the jumble of questions he had crammed in his head, like an over-stuffed sack of potatoes; endlessly rejecting one after another as unsuitable choices for opening one of the hardest and least desired conversations he had ever had the misfortune to have to hold. He had half a mind to turn tail and run back the way he had come; back to the relative safety of his own chambers, where the air was clean and warm and he did not have to face the quandary that was what had become of everything he had put his trust in: his beliefs, facts, friend. His whole world turned inside out.

In the end, the question that floated up to the surface of his thoughts - and refused to sink back down - was one of the more mundane and unnecessary ones he could have posed.

"Why aren't you eating?"

He did not expect an answer. He wasn't even sure if Merlin was awake, or in a state that allowed him to be aware of his presence. There certainly appeared to be no physical reaction to his voice, as it broke the silence and bounced back off the dripping walls, though he had made sure to not raise it above the level of a chat across a small table. There was no tensing of the thin shoulders or change in the rhythm of their almost imperceptible rise and fall, as respiration carried on regardless. And so he nearly jumped out of his skin, when, after only a short pause, he heard:

"What's the point?"

The voice was fragile, rasping and juddered with the shivers of its maker. And it was so loaded with defeat that Arthur felt his own cheeks pale and his heart hitch with horror. Where was the arrogant, formidable sorcerer he was supposed to be confronting? A man who killed because he could, and who could only be stopped by superior cunning and speed. One whose heart was turned to obsidian by the taint of magic's tempting whisper.

Not this...this pale, sickly man - only a couple of years past being a boy - who lay there shaking and coughing fit to extricate a lung. So sad and pathetic. Was he truly a threat?

_If you had not subdued him, he would be_, came the sniping voice of his father in his head. _You trusted him. Sorcerers are not to be trusted._

"Why?"

Again, Arthur jumped. Had the sorcerer heard his thoughts? Was nothing sacred anymore, now he had discovered the man's betrayal? He swallowed hard, trying to clear his mind of musings; not wanting to give anything away that could be used against him.

"Why what?" he said to Merlin's back, and had to swallow hard to force some moisture down his suddenly dry throat.

"Why do you keep doing it?"

Arthur frowned, a knot of annoyance beginning to grow in his chest at his ex-servant's blatantly cryptic questions. The tactician in him began poking him with warnings of a trap; a game he should refuse to play, and take back command of the conversation instead. But the habits of their friendship over the years were too ingrained in his psyche to be overcome, and he found himself replying, as if his mouth was not his own, "Doing what?"

"Stopping me," came the throaty whisper, and the next bout of coughing that followed on its heels gave Arthur a minute or two for the two words to sink in and devour whatever accusations he had been preparing to throw.

With the taste of bile in his throat came the realisation that perhaps Gaius was right; Merlin really did not know why he was there. In the wake of this epiphany came anger. Anger at himself, for not at least going to the trouble of telling the accused what he was accused of. Anger at Merlin, for believing that the man he'd considered a friend would imprison him (allowing him to become ill) as either a punishment or preventative measure for his repeated attempts to kill himself. Though he had to admit, as a method of stopping the heinous act, it was proving to be quite foolproof. Except for the possibility that starvation or infection could have an effect on proceedings. In this at least, Merlin still had a hand in his fate. A hand he should not be entitled to.

But then, how tempting would it be to allow him to take the coward's way out? By taking his own life, would Merlin not then rid the King of the problem of deciding what to do with him? And the slow pace and painful method of his self-inflicted execution would be poetic justice for his crimes. Was it any worse than an hour or so of having his skin turning into charcoal, while he waited for his lungs to be destroyed by smoke and his last breath to leave him in an agonised scream.

Arthur closed his eyes and roughly shoved the many images - of the people he had seen die by this method, during his father's reign - back into the decrepit depths of his memories again. The last of these was born not from memory but imagination: his waifish servant being swallowed by flames; not uttering a word or a cry as he accepted his fate willingly.

"No!" he murmured, and shook his head, denying the picture a place to rest. Then, not waiting to see if the vision would rebel against its banishment, he opened his eyes and glared at the man on the dirty floor; who had grown still again, after his latest attempt to shower the cell in phlegm, or whatever else was using up breathing space in his chest.

_Merlin might be physically suffering, but _I_ am the victim here; something that the Leons, Agravaines and Gaiuses in the world don't understand, when they pointed their accusatory fingers at me. It was _my_ father and mother who were killed. _My_ sister who was stolen from me and changed from the kind, gentle soul I grew up with. _My_ city that was bombarded by fire, spells and raiding forces. _My_ people who cry out in the night from the dreams of remembering their lost loved ones and homes._

And this man...THIS MAN...confessed to it all! As unlikely a candidate as he was to be the perpetrator of the crimes, he did not need to be coerced or robbed of the ability to lie to admit to the blame. If anything, he had almost seemed to do so with relief, as if the need to get things off his chest had become too much to bear. Was that the reason for the melancholy behaviour, which had lead to him hiding away in his shell; rejecting his friends and then trying to reject his own existence? Could a sorcerer actually feel remorse for their actions?

Not that it would absolve him of the penalty. But in worming his way into the King's heart, the King could not so easily pass sentence. He has been robbed of his right to not care and to punish with a clear conscience. If he killed him, a part of him would die too, and he would go through the rest of his life missing a piece of himself. If he banished him, he would forever be wondering where the sorcerer was, and what he was doing; if he was plotting or repenting. But he couldn't just let him go; a known criminal to strike again against the innocent. There was a kingdom to protect, law and order to uphold, and a reputation to live up to. And at last he understood what had never made sense to him, when he had gone to his father as a boy; sad with the realisation that none of his playmates genuinely liked him or would be with him, unless fear or ambition dictated it to be so. Uther had uttered the words in a voice thick with bitterness, warning and a tinge of regret. _Kings cannot have friends_.

But if he could not decide what to do with Merlin, the least he could do - for the sake of all they had once meant to each other - was let him know why he was there. The final decision would have to come later, after sufficient time to think and gather more information. The value of a man's life was not to be taken lightly, even one as wicked as this one had turned out to be.

"Look at me, Merlin," he said, his tone once again strong and decisive.

When there was no sign of the man in question obeying him, Arthur frowned; his teeth gritted at his ex-manservant's unwavering insistence on ignoring authority. Did he really have no idea of the precarious position he was in?! Okay, maybe circumstances couldn't get any worse than they already were for him, but they could get a little better. It certainly would go a long way to preventing Arthur's mood from affecting his judgement - when the time came to make it - if his patience had not been tested to the limit by the audacity of the accused.

"LOOK. AT. ME!"

Merlin's entire back flinched at the sound that exploded in the closed space. He sniffed deeply; the resultant loose mucus in his throat bringing forth a - thankfully - much shorter spate of coughing. And then he slowly rolled over in his reeking bed, until he came to a stop on his right-hand side.

Arthur waited long enough for the sorcerer to settle and blink his eyes into focus, as they climbed the height of the man stood watching him. The King held his facial muscles in a vice-like grip, desperate to not show the shock of seeing the grey pallor of Merlin's skin, the redness of his slightly swollen nose and eyelids, the black rings beneath his eyes, like fresh bruises, and the fine layer of stubble that had erupted on the lower half of his face. And though he couldn't see it, he knew that somewhere underneath that filthy nest of dark hair was an egg-sized lump and a not-yet-healed cut, from the bludgeoning made by the King's own sword. In the three days since he had last seen him, his one-time friend appeared to have aged two decades, and lost whatever remained of his already meagre fat stores from beneath his skin. If he hadn't seen him move, nor heard evidence of the battle to clear his airways, he might have thought he had missed his chance to do what he had come down there to do. Whatever that turned out to be.

Merlin's slightly out of focus and watering eyes halted their apathetic wander, as they latched onto Arthur's gaze; blinking slowly now and then, as if constantly keeping sleep at bay. Which - Arthur realised - was quite likely the case, given how awful he looked. A twitch escaped the grasp he had on his mouth, as another wave of remorse engulfed him, but he furiously quashed it. He would _not_ display weakness. The time had come to show that he would not be lied to, or used, or branded as gullible and stupid, simply for showing his kindness to and trust in others. He was the ruler of this kingdom, and thus deserved respect, obedience, honesty.

"I know, Merlin," he said, his voice wavering only slightly. "I heard you. You and...the dragon. I know what you are...and what you have done."

He expected tears and denials; pleading and excuses. He expected a villainous laugh and an arrogant declaration of the sorcerer's cunning, in fooling the King for so long, followed by a pretentious and downright ridiculous claim that he would either thwart his former master once more or have his death avenged. Hell, even an attempt at a joke (a salute to their long-forgotten bantering) - in the hope of returning them one last time to the camaraderie they'd enjoyed - would be somewhere on the list of reactions he'd anticipated. But not the one he actually got.

"Oh. Right. Well, that's that then, isn't it."

Arthur could feel the heat rising in his veins at the hoarse, slightly-slurred words. And though somewhere in the back of his mind, a small voice tried to point out that Merlin was likely too tired and sick to be much aware of what he was saying, he irritably slammed a door shut in its face. His fists tightened on the bars they held, fit enough to bend them out of shape. Indeed, if he held them any longer, he felt sure the fire building in his palms would smelt the metal into a puddle on the floor; allowing him to thrust himself into the cell without unlocking it, and place his burning digits around the traitor's scrawny neck.

"That's that?" he managed to squeeze the breath past the tightness in his throat, and through his clamped teeth, to form a harsh hiss. "Is that all you have to say? After murdering my father? And I'm guessing the old man is a relative or friend or something; someone you got to do your dirty work, anyway. Not sure why. Maybe you're not a good enough sorcerer or you don't have the guts to do it yourself!

"That's that? After you turned my sister into a sorceress. I bet you two plotted together to take over Camelot, and then when she took the throne for herself, you changed your mind; chickened out. And what about the veil? You survived the Dorocha's touch, didn't you. So were you counting on that to protect you when you and she tore the veil, and tried to force me to give up my life to repair it? What about Lancelot? Did you push him into the veil, because the Cailleach wouldn't take me?

"That's that? THAT'S. FUCKING. THAT!"

Arthur was spitting with rage, his face that of a snarling beast, and his hands - having released the metal bars due to the pain they were causing his tight grip - were curled in on themselves; his nails cutting into his palms.

"Was _anything_ over the last seven years real? Did you _ever _speak the truth? All that fucking shit about believing in me, and being happy to be my servant - my friend - about how I was supposed to be this great future King. Dammit, ANSWER me, you traitorous bastard!"

Arthur forced the red haze away from his eyes, in order to see if anything he had said had made any kind of impression on his prisoner, and whether Merlin was going to add to the mere eight words that he had given as an explanation after the days and nights of mental turmoil and hair-tearing that Arthur had gone through.

Merlin had managed to raise himself on one elbow - though judging by the way the limb shook, he would be supine again before long - and was staring at Arthur. No sound issued from his gaping - and occasionally twitching - mouth, but then no sound was needed to convey what he was feeling as a result of Arthur's rant. His eyes said it all. Though slightly glazed, they were filled with a squally maelstrom of fear, disbelief, shame and sorrow. But no denial. Not one iota.

The hot mist descended over Arthur's vision again, and he slammed his clenched fists on the barrier that stood between him and the sweating, miserable-looking man in the room beyond. The whole grate clanged and shook, showering him in drops of moisture that had lost their grip of the ceiling as a result. But he didn't even notice them.

"Well?" he shouted, his eyes spitting venom. "Have you _anything_ so say for yourself, sorcerer?"

Merlin, defying his body's demands to lie down (and therefore conserve what little energy remained), pushed himself into a sitting position; his legs splayed out in front of him. He lifted a palsied hand to press the heel of it to his forehead, and Arthur caught a glint of silver as Merlin's sleeve slid up his arm.

Arthur never thought he would have need of those particular manacles, when Uther had taken him on his first tour of the vault's contents. Least of all on the arms of a friend. But he contented himself with the thought that they were the least barbaric of some of the devices he had been introduced to, during the lesson in 'the subjugation of sorcery' he'd had that day. The shiny, rune-decorated cuffs were designed (by a magic-wielding blacksmith Uther had imprisoned, tortured into submission and later killed) to simply bind a sorcerer; to prevent him or her from using their magic. There had been many more nausea-inducing tools Arthur had been shown, and had silently (and vehemently) vowed never to so much as touch again, never mind use them on another human being; even if they did practice the evil art. He saw no need to rip out a man's soul through his eyeballs or flay the magic from his body - along with his skin - when all that was required was to ensure they could be kept a prisoner like any other non-magic user.

As far as he was aware, the process didn't even hurt. In fact the metal was so smooth and ergonomically-shaped, the manacles were a lot more comfortable to wear than the standard, unenchanted kind. More like wearing close-fitting bracelets than restraints. He was sure that the spasmodic shiver that had run through Merlin's unconscious body, when the fetters had been placed on his wrists, were the result of nothing more than his own carelessness as he closed them; his hands shaking with the chill of standing in a frigid dungeon in wet clothes, as well as the awareness of whose magic he was actually binding.

Merlin sniffed loudly, and Arthur could not tell if it was due to his emotional or physical state, with his face still pointing at his lap. Arthur could already feel the burning anger cooling a degree or two as he watched the man, despite the fact that he had received no answer to his last question yet. It was nigh on impossible to stay livid and indignant in the face of something so utterly broken. And his animosity was further chilled by the whispered words that floated across the space between interrogator and interrogatee.

"I'm sorry."

It had given Arthur a certain amount of satisfaction to know that he held another evil-doer at his mercy; that he was fulfilling his role as the good son to a father's legacy. But now, there was another feeling taking a hold of his lungs and slowly, inexorably squeezing them into a smaller and smaller space. The feeling that he was letting someone down; giving cause for disappointment. Or several someones.

Gwaine would definitely be one of them. He had complained both vocally and ocularly all the way back to the citadel, following the conversation they had witnessed between Merlin and his fiery friend; drawing up examples of the many good deeds he still believed their prisoner had been genuine in performing over their history together. And he had spent any remaining moments of silence attempting to cast doubt on the interpretation of what they had heard that night.

The others may not know all the details of Merlin's misdeeds, thanks to his eventual loss of patience with Gwaine, and forbidding him from speaking of what they had witnessed to anyone, unless he was keen to give exile another go. But that did not forestall the confused, worried and, yes, disappointed looks that had flashed his way from the other knights, as well as Gwen.

Gaius, despite the fact that he knew what the devices on his ward's arms implied, appeared to be of the belief that Merlin did not deserve to be in the dungeon either.

_"Contained within this great kingdom is a rich variety of people, with a range of different beliefs. I am not the only one seeking to protect you."_

Had Gaius been speaking about Merlin specifically? The dragon had also implied that Merlin was supposed to be protecting him, helping him achieve some great destiny he knew nothing about. But if that was the case, what exactly had he been doing all this time? From what Merlin had said that night, he did not concur with their theories. How _could_ his prophesised saviour be the same man who had destroyed his family?

_I need answers, for God's sake, not more questions! I did what I was supposed to do - been trained to do: apprehended the bad, protected the good; brought justice to all_. But he knew that there was more than one side to a story. And he knew, without a doubt, that there was more to the stories that Merlin and his bestial co-conspirator had discussed so briefly. Just as he knew that he needed to know more before he could fairly judge a man that he had thought he knew but didn't. A man who he had always (secretly) thought of as the epitome of goodness, fairness and gentleness, and who seemed to care about everyone, with few prejudices. The illustrations in the book of 'things and persons to avoid or destroy', that his father had bequeathed him, simply could not be compared to what was in front of him now.

"Sorry about what?" he said eventually; the volume of his voice more modest than it had been minutes ago. There was no reply. Arthur could feel the seeds of his irritation begin to grow again, but he made a stalwart attempt to squash them out of existence. "Merlin?" he said, squinting at the man in question.

Merlin drew a long, raspy-sounding breath and raised his head, though he still did not meet Arthur's eyes. He simply stared at a point, somewhere on the floor in front of where he sat.

"I failed you again. I didn't want this. I...it's all gone wrong and it's all my fault..." A thin trickle of salt water trailed down a dirty, white cheek, until it reached the quivering jaw. For a moment it hung there; wobbling and vibrating, reflecting the flickering flame from the torch held by the sconce to Arthur's left. Then it disappeared; just one more drop among the many contributing to the dampness of the dungeon.

Arthur's stomach tightened at the sight and words; his feet trying to propel him forwards, through the door, to his one-time-friend's side, to offer - if nothing else - a consolatory clap to the back; as was the tradition amongst his knights. But his head quelled his momentum; keeping him glued to the spot and swaying slightly from the inner turmoil.

"What did you do, Merlin?" he said instead, his voice gentler, coaxing; his need to know more momentarily stronger than the impulse to vent his rage.

"You were there; you heard."

"Yes, Merlin, I heard," Arthur said, his voice hardening; his anger unwilling to be held at bay for long. "But it wasn't me you were talking to, was it. Why, Merlin? Why did I have to find out this way? Were you _ever_ going to tell me what you are; what you did?"

Merlin snaked his arms around his knees, drawing them up towards his chin, and began rocking slightly back and forth. He vigorously shook his head; still contemplating the spot on the ground.

"WHY NOT?"

Merlin cringed, and then as coughs started to bubble up again, he winced at the pain lancing through his chest; pursing his lips to try and suppress his body's urge to force the accumulating liquid out. He wasn't entirely successful, as it just made a break for another orifice, leaving Merlin spluttering and sniffing until he managed to clear his nasal passages a little.

Arthur stubbornly ignored it. Merlin was the criminal here, and he the law. He would not have his heart strings plucked like a lyre, because his prisoner had caught a trifling cold. Not anymore. "Why? Why does everyone lie to me? I thought you were different, Merlin. I was always honest with you, and I foolishly thought you were with me. But all along I was the idiot, wasn't I? You're like the rest of them; full of secrets and lies. And I've had just about enough of it! I want to know everything, Merlin. You're going to tell me everything you've done, or by God I'll...I'll..." _What? Torture him? Execute him? Can you really do that...to Merlin of all people? Can you be your father's son? And will it even make any difference, when Merlin _wants_ to die?_

But Merlin either no longer heard him or chose to ignore his questions. "I tried to save them," he rambled; intermittently rocking, coughing, shuddering and shaking his head. "I...I wanted to. Couldn't bear to see you in pain. Didn't want to hurt you again."

There, again, was the predicament: the mismatch between expectation and actuality. Since when did sorcerers save, not slaughter? And why would they _not_ rejoice in another's pain? Not feel pleasure at causing hurt. Could Arthur rely on _any_ of the 'truths' he had been taught from infancy? Without them, he had no moral gauge; no way of telling a liar from an honest man; good from bad. How could he continue to judge without this guide - be a fair and just King - if every rule he lived by was to be brought into question and then chucked on the midden heap? And how could the actions and speech of one man - one peasant, one servant, one loyal-and-trusted-friend-turned-traitor - be the broken weft that unravelled the tapestry of his beliefs?

Distantly, he was aware of his lips moving; uttering words he was not entirely sure he had intended to. "Who? Who did you try to save, Merlin?" Wishing, hoping the reply would be the missing piece; the evidence that would bring a way through the impasse. One good deed to cast enough doubt on all the presumed misdeeds.

His narrowed eyes bore into the face of the man sat on the floor. But it was as if Merlin's awareness of the world outside the tiny area he occupied had flickered out of existence. His eyes were open wide, like a deer caught in a hunter's sight; seeing nothing of the room around him, or the man who spoke to him. His mind lost in a terrible memory, that made his head slew from side to side in denial.

"I tried...I couldn't do it," came the throaty whisper that instigated another round of coughing. "It...went...wrong. It...always...goes wrong. I-"

Merlin's speech was becoming more and more warped by the thick, wet hacks and gasps, until he was almost impossible to understand. Arthur quickly scanned the entirety of the cell, but could not see anything with which to suggest the re-lubrication of Merlin's throat. So tutting quietly in response to his rising frustration, he wheeled round and strode quickly back down the long corridor to the guards' table, where he remembered seeing a clay jug and two cups. He hoped that whatever game they had been playing had not been thirsty work, and that one of the vessels still held something useful. Relief washed over him when his hope proved to not be in vain, and he snatched up the half-filled cup before heading back the way he had come; his pace only a little more measured, so as to not spill the water with unbridled haste.

As he drew closer, it dawned on him that the walls no longer rang to the sound of jaw-rattling hacks, and he quickened his steps subconsciously; wondering at the cause. He was met by the sight of Merlin once again lying on the ground. Though this time in an even more uncomfortable-looking position. His back was curled over so that his forehead rested on the rough stone; one arm crushed between his thigh and his chest, while the other hung across his bony hip, hand dangling towards the floor.

Arthur sighed exasperatedly. "Great! Just when I was about to get some answers, you fall asleep! Excellent timing, as ever, _Mer_lin!" And he didn't know if it was just habit, or a true concern, that allowed a note of fondness to creep into his tone.

The only reply was the wheezy sound of Merlin's breathing.

The King brought his free hand to his temples and held it there a second, as if extracting all the questions that he'd been cheated from posing, so as to put them aside for another inquisition later (after they'd both had some rest) and then pushed his fingers through his unkempt locks. He slowly turned around, intending to make his way back to the warmer climes of above ground and - hopefully - a bath, food and bed, when he remembered the cup he still held. He paused, looking back over his shoulder with a creased brow. It would be hours before Merlin received his next prison rations, and he might spend a great number of those tearing what remained of his larynx into even more ragged shreds. No point in worsening his suffering, and he would be in no position to fill the gaps in Arthur's knowledge if he couldn't speak. Plus he did seem to be in a very unnatural pose for sleeping. Not that the King should show concern if his prisoner ended up with a crick in his neck.

_But, perhaps I could... After all, he can't exactly use his magic on me. And there's no way he could possibly surprise me with an attack. Even after having hardly any sleep over the last couple of days, I could still take him apart with one blow._

_"I could take you apart with less."_

Words spoken a seeming lifetime ago drifted across his consciousness, and the breath snagged in his throat as their true significance became apparent for the first time. _Oh! Right. So perhaps that was one instance when you _didn't_ lie. There had to be one, I suppose. Doesn't make up for all the others though, does it? And under normal circumstances, maybe you _could_ take me apart with less than a blow. But right now, I think not!_

Arthur looked down at the set of keys hanging from his belt, glad he had had the foresight to bring them, though he hadn't been sure why exactly; only that he hadn't felt ready to leave his chambers without them. And for once, they had been where they were supposed to be - thanks to George's tidiness bordering on obsession - instead of still being attached to a belt or hidden in the pocket of a dirty pair of trousers, in a pile of clothes under his bed that Merlin had forgotten to remove and launder. A small smile pulled at the corner of his lips, and Arthur released a melancholy sigh for a happier memory than the ones the last few days had produced. In a time when he still had a best friend for a servant and the world as he knew it had order; predictability.

Selecting the key he needed, he let the rest clink down into a musical bunch while he inserted it into the lock and gave it a turn. He looked down at his ex-servant again and couldn't help noticing that the teeth-curling screech of the key forcing itself past the slightly rusted wards of the lock had not disturbed his slumber.

_Huh! Lucky you, Merlin, being able to sleep so deeply. Some of us don't get the chance, with a million and one things on our minds. But no, you just carry on; don't mind me._

The louder protestation of the cell door's hinges had no greater success in waking the sleeping man than the lock had, and as Arthur stepped over the threshold, a faint, but hard-to-ignore alarm bell began ringing in his head.

As he neared Merlin's side, he couldn't work out whether his breaths sounded more laboured than they had from outside the room, or whether it was just the effect of the slightly higher ceiling of the cell throwing the sound back and forth more vigorously. Either way, he found himself quietening his own respiration in order to listen more intently for anything abnormal.

He sank down on his haunches, and placed the cup beside the slightly shivering form. Arthur was just pondering the fairly rebellious notion (that sounded not unlike a combination of Gaius and Gwaine at their most condescending) that it would be no great sacrifice of his pride to allow his prisoner the simple comfort of a blanket, when his extended hand made contact with Merlin's dangling one, and he snatched his own back with a gasp. Arthur swallowed hard, his pulse quickening as he reached again; this time for a pale, sweaty-hair covered forehead, and he carefully pressed his whole hand to it. The harrumph he issued was closer to a growl; the frown on his brow deepening.

He sighed again and glared at the unconscious sorcerer, as if by doing so, the man would relent and instantly lower his body temperature by enough degrees to _not_ make his King's heart race painfully.

"Merlin," he snapped, "Why do you keep doing this to me?"

Then sparing only enough time to move the limp, feverish body back over to the relative lessening of discomfort that was the pile of straw, he leapt back to his feet and exited the cell, at a march that was quick enough to be mistaken for a jog. His thumping footsteps echoed back through the open cell door; forgotten by a mind that was pondering the fact that he had failed in his mission to prove the Court Physician wrong.


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: Hello again, all! Wow, wasn't that a fantastically whumpy episode last night? To those of you who haven't yet seen it, you're in for a treat. Thank you again to everyone for all the kind, helpful and supportive reviews, follows and favourites. You lot are truly the best! This is sort of part two of the confrontation...part three will be coming up in the next chapter (it was never going to be a quick and easy thing, LOL) :O)  
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**Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin, but would be happy to buy shares (maybe so they can make money for a season 6?).  
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**Chapter 19**

Gaius watched as the soles of his ward's boots gradually disappeared up the stairs leading out of the dungeon; slung between the two poles of the stretcher on which the two guards bore him away. He knew that the grunts and mumbles issuing from the two men had more to do with the awkwardness of manoeuvring the unconscious body around the tight corners of the staircase, than the heaviness of their burden; thanks to Merlin's continual weight-loss. The old man sighed heavily; his eyelids more creased than ever with worry and fatigue, and his mouth pressed into a fine line. He hitched the strap of his medicine bag higher up on his hunched shoulder and made to follow in the path of the stretcher-bearers, when a voice behind him halted his step.

"Gaius, a word, if you please?"

For a moment, he held his gaze in the direction he so desperately wished to head, even though the empty stone steps were all there was left to see, but then he slowly blinked the last vision he had of his sick boy away from his inner eye, huffed a quiet, resigned breath out of his hairy nostrils and turned round to face the call of duty instead.

"Sire," he said; the mixture of deep thought and barely-hidden concern on the young king's face softening the old man's tone a mark or two below the acid snap that would have been his first impulse to use.

Arthur was also staring at the recently-used staircase, his cheeks pinched and his teeth gnawing at the inner parts of his lips. Gaius waited as patiently as he could; his hands folded one on top of the other, while his mind was a whir with thoughts of the potions and poultices he had in his store and what he would likely need to brew over the next few days, in order to treat his latest patient. When the silence did not end as soon as he expected, and his mind began to scream "_I don't have _time_ for this!_", he opened his mouth, prepared to beg leave of his sovereign, when Arthur's eyes suddenly came into focus and swivelled to meet his.

"Merlin has magic."

It was not a question, and therefore did not require an answer. Gaius knew he could just keep quiet: providing neither a denial nor a confirmation, but he also knew that the time for bluffs and dodges was long in the past. The events of the last few days - nay the last few weeks - screamed that this was true. As was usually the case, when the lesson was an important one, he had learned the hard way the dangers of hiding too much, of denying the truth and changing the subject. And Merlin was the one who had suffered from the outcome of listening too blinkeredly to his inner fears. It was time to stop. The lies, the cowering away from his doubts, the accepting without question. Merlin deserved it, and so did the King.

"Yes," he said, his voice firm and unafraid, as he held the King's eye.

Arthur returned the gaze, and Gaius couldn't deny that he felt a sliver of relief pulse through him, that the King's face was not marred by anger, accusation, or fear, but merely appeared pensive. The silence grew again, and Gaius began to feel a little irritated that his precious time was being spent bearing witness to Arthur's internal thought processes, which he seemed unwilling to divulge, when the King turned away and spoke; one hand resting on his hip, while the other worried at his lower lip.

"What do you believe, Gaius: is magic good or evil?"

It was such a simple question, but it could not be granted a simple answer, and Gaius was taken aback by its out-of-the-blue abruptness. When he took more than a few seconds to formulate his reply, Arthur turned back to regard him - watching him for signs of falsehood - and Gaius couldn't help but be reminded of the last time he had been thusly questioned; his reaction sought over the subject of magic. Though on that occasion, it had been the King's Uncle that had been doing the asking.

As on that occasion, Gaius was all too aware of the importance of the wording he used to express his opinion; for while the right one could change the mind of a King, the wrong one could result in a trip to the executioner's block.

"I do not blindly believe, sire," he said at last. "But equally, I do not blindly dismiss. There is good and bad in everything. It is the balance of both that matters."

Arthur turned towards the empty cells again, so his face was hidden from view, denying Gaius the chance to determine if the words he had used had offended or spurred further deep thought. With his back still turned to the physician, the young King sighed and released his lip from the pummelling of his fingertips; placing them instead on his other hip.

"My father spent twenty-five years fighting against magic. How can I suddenly turn my back on all he worked for; what his people, allies, and even enemies respected him for? It is one of the founding laws of Camelot's constitution. To revoke it would be to cause chaos, anarchy and fear. I cannot do that to my people; all for the sake of one man."

"Hardly one man, sire," Gaius replied, raising his eyebrow in consternation. "Merlin just happens to be the one closest to you..." he held up a hand to forestall a retort, when Arthur turned to face him with his brow creased and mouth already beginning to shape the first indignant word. "...and do not insult my intelligence by denying it, when I'm only one of many who know this to be true.

Arthur's jaw snapped shut and Gaius had to use all his many years of experience in diplomacy to prevent the smug grin from creeping onto his face. The bleak environment they were in did help to some extent to sober his mood.

"I have watched the pair of you overcome every trial that has been thrown at you, and still you do not hesitate to rush off on the next adventure; together and with no thought to those you leave behind, as we pray to all the Gods that we w_ill _see you again." Gaius felt no satisfaction at the guilty blush he saw colouring the King's cheeks, but neither did he regret the minor admonishment. One day, the King would have children of his own, who would - if there was any justice in the world - be as reckless as himself. Then he would know the fear Gaius lived with every day, that the two men - who were as dear to him as any flesh-and-blood sons - would not return.

"There are many hundreds out there, without such a prominent place in society as Merlin has, to draw attention to their plight. And like him, they hide away their gifts from the world, for fear that they and their loved ones will suffer for something they cannot help but have."

Arthur's face instantly hardened at this, and he folded his arms across his chest. "Cannot help but have?" he said, anger raising his voice in pitch as well as volume. "They are sorcerers, Gaius, not lepers or blind men! It is not some disease they catch, or affliction they are born with. They must study to use magic, and they traitorously choose to do so."

Gaius looked down in an attempt to hide the sorrow and bitterness that brought a shadow to his face; shaking his head a little in disbelief. "How little you know, sire. Your father - Gods rest his soul - was a good King, a strong King, and in _some _ways a good father. And where he was lacking was, in more ways than one, due to not having a wife's influence to aid him.

"Following the death of your mother, he banished not only the use of magic, but the history of it; the understanding of how it works. Magic cannot be learned and perfected by just anyone. People are born with or without the potential to use it. For most - like Morgana - the natural talent does not begin to manifest itself until later in life; sometimes when puberty is reached, but mostly in adulthood. Usually, when the person's magic begins to show, it is in small ways: bringing an object to their hand that they desperately need, when it is just out of reach; or the person may have a sudden fear that someone they know is in danger, just before an accident occurs. Sometimes, however, magic can flare up powerfully and without warning, and if the person is not given guidance and understanding, it can be frightening. As it was for your sister."

Arthur winced at the reference to his errant relative, but Gaius, aware that for once this was a lesson he could not spare the King, ploughed on. "Though it shames me to admit it now, sire, she came to me, asking for help - for acceptance - when her magic began to grow beyond the odd precognitive dream she would have from time to time. The occasion when her room was set on fire, do you remember?"

Arthur frowned in confusion for a moment, and then nodded when the memory surfaced. "That was her magic, then, not an accident?" he asked.

Gaius chuckled humourlessly. "Yes and no, sire. It _was_ her magic, but it was _also _an accident. Do you think she intended for the whole castle to burn down, starting with her own room?! Her magic - as uncontrolled and virgin as it was - lashed out in her sleep."

"But then that just proves what my father said to be true: magic _is _dangerous."

"Yes," Gaius said, a hint of impatience in his tone, "Magic can be dangerous, _if _it is left uncontrolled and unschooled. That is why people with magic learn the ways of the old religion, sire: to gain control; to focus their latent powers. Whether they do so for a good or evil purpose is their choice. Spells can be used to knit torn flesh and save a life, just as easily as they can be applied to reducing walls and the wills of men to rubble. What matters is that you teach not only how to use magic, but when and why. Do you train your knights to kill anything that moves with their weapons, or only when it is necessary to protect other lives?"

Arthur was staring into space again, his mouth slightly agape, as his mind whirled and creaked under the weight of the new perspective the old physician had given him. Gaius' face softened with sympathy for the contradictions he knew must now be plaguing the King's mind. When he spoke again, his voice was much quieter and wavered a little with his hidden shame.

"Those early days of Morgana's awakening magic still haunt me, sire, for not only did I dismiss her fears and lie to her face, when she guessed by herself that the strange happenings were caused by her own dawning abilities. I also forbade Merlin from helping her."

Arthur's head shot up to allow his eyes to find and glare into the physician's at this confession. "What? But...why?"

"Uther. She may have been his ward - or as it turned out, his own daughter - but would that have been enough to stay his hand and prevent her execution?"

Arthur began to shake his head in denial. "Father would never-"

"Are you certain of that, sire?" Gaius interrupted. "You do not fully understand the blind hatred he had for magic, for you did not see the despair and madness that overtook him when Ygraine was taken from him. It was not unlike that time - two years ago - when he was under the mandrake's enchantment."

Arthur swallowed hard and paled at the memories of those dark days; the first time his father had almost been lost to him, through the poisoning of his mind. And then he had had to live through it a second time, when Morgana betrayed, imprisoned and usurped him; an act from which he had never truly recovered.

"Such madness leads to grave misunderstanding and bias against anything that reminds one of the loss. And every hint of magic did just that to your father: it reminded him what it was that had caused his greatest pain. If a man nearly dies from drowning, he will forever have either a great respect for or a great fear of water. With Uther, it was the latter. A fear that grew into an obsession; a need to never allow such pain to be visited on another again.

"Before Ygraine died, magic was welcome here; those who practiced it seen as friends, healers, entertainers and defenders. Not enemies, murderers, and traitors. And it could be that way again. Give some credit to the people, sire. They do not all forget the past, and they do not all bear grudges. It will take time and - in some cases - a lot of convincing, to change the mindset of those who wholeheartedly believed in your father's warnings."

Arthur rolled his eyes at this and bit the inside of his cheek, in a gesture that reminded Gaius of Gwen for a second, and for a fleeting moment he marvelled at how two people so in love could pick up each other's habits, without being the slightest bit aware they were doing so.

"You are young, sire," he comforted, "and have many years to work on undoing the doubts. I have faith in you sire...and so does Merlin." Arthur looked up at him sharply, disbelief raising his eyebrows towards his scruffy hairline. "That is why he stayed, when he could have lead a much less dangerous and threatened life elsewhere. He believed in you and all the good you would do...together. But..."

"But?" Arthur's voice was a cracked whisper, as if the weight of everything he had heard so far was becoming too much to bear. Indeed, Gaius had noticed the young man's adam's apple bobbing a couple of times, as if he was swallowing back a tear that threatened to fall, with the swelling pressure of the new knowledge and responsibility that was being laid on his already overburdened shoulders.

Gaius therefore felt guilty for what he was about to say, but he suppressed a shudder at the reminder of how crucial it was - to the wellbeing of both parties involved - that he let the King know. "Somewhere along the line, he lost faith in himself and grew weary of his purpose. He needs you sire, as much as you need him. He needs your belief, your understanding and your forgiveness. He needs you to remind him of his destiny; the reason he was given his gift."

Arthur huffed cynically and clenched his jaw, his eyes narrowing to angry slits. "But how can I do that, if I don't know what is it myself? It may have escaped your notice, but only a week ago, I knew nothing of all this; that someone I trusted was a sorcerer and had hidden it from me every moment we have known each other. How can I make him believe in himself when I no longer believe him? How can I understand him, when everything I know of him is not true? And how can I forgive him, when he won't tell me what it is he has done?"

Gaius ducked his head, guilt making his features more haggard. "In that, I have had some influence, sire. As with Morgana, I advised caution and secrecy. I feared for their lives, and perhaps my fear - like your father's - had no foundation, and caused more harm than good." Gaius glanced over his shoulder, as if visualising his ward calling out to him in his fevered state, through the layers of stone and wood that stood between the dungeon and physician's tower. He sighed and turned back towards Arthur, though he couldn't bring himself to meet the man's eyes straight away. "I could not bear to lose him or anyone else who is dear to me, as a result of this war with magic. I have already seen too many deaths and too many lives left scarred and crippled by prejudice, hate and misunderstanding. And all too often, I have been forced to keep my thoughts to myself, turn a blind eye and hope that in some way, good would eventually come of it.

"Now, all I can do is try to make amends. You are the king, and so I cannot tell you what to think of or do with him. But I can ask you to just listen as much as you talk to him. For only in understanding his motives will you be able to forgive his mistakes." A small smile valiantly tried to tug the old man's downturned lips up. It succeeded for only a second or two. "And most of the time, only he knows what's going on in that strange mind of his!"

A soft snort came from the King; his mouth quirked by a momentary smile, as he too reflected on the enigma that was the man he had called servant. Idiot. Wise. Friend. Traitor.

Taking the lack of a response or retort as his cue, Gaius hefted the strap of his bag up again on his shoulder and shuffled his feet (which, he suddenly realised, ached from bearing his weight for so long a period), before saying, "Now, if you'll excuse me, sire, I must attend to my patient." And without waiting for a gesture or word of permission, he turned and began shuffling quickly towards the stairs again; leaving the King staring into at nothing in particular, and only semi-aware of the fact that he was the one who had been dismissed.

* * *

"If you're going to be making this a long visit, Gwaine, then you can stop fiddling with my equipment and make yourself useful!"

Gwaine snatched his hand away from the stoppered glass bottle, filled with a lurid yellow liquid that was hanging over the low flame on the physician's main experimenting table, and grinned sheepishly over at the old man. Gaius had deigned to raise only his eyes from the task he was bent over, to glare at the long-haired knight who had invaded his home yet again; his arched eyebrow adding a weight to the reprimand that his voice never could, no matter how loud he made it.

"Sorry, Gaius, but I'm here on official duty," Gwaine replied, flicking the curtain of hair off his face, and standing straighter; his hand automatically falling onto the pommel of the sword at his belt. He looked over at the cot that the physician was bending towards from the stool beside it, and whatever had remained of his earlier smile fell from his face; his eyes sad and mouth pursed.

The physician followed his gaze and looked back down at the patient lying on the cot: pale, shivering, and sweating profusely. With the help of one of the guards - who had lingered until his arrival, after having delivered the warlock to his chambers - Gaius had somehow managed to remove the filthy clothes Merlin had been wearing in the dungeons, and dressed him in a clean nightshirt and trousers. The shirt already sported darker patches around the neckline and armpits, where Merlin's fever had made its mark. The shivering had died down a little, from the almost bone-rattling judders Gaius had witnessed, when he had been brought down to the dungeons to give his diagnosis to an anxious King. The physician could only feel the utmost relief and gratitude that he had not had to use much in the way of persuasion to get his ward's jailer to release him into his care. Even Arthur - as stubborn and oblivious as he could sometimes be - did not disagree that the cold, damp environment was having a very detrimental effect on the sick, young prisoner.

Within half an hour of arriving in his chambers, however, there had been a knock at the door, followed by Sir Gwaine's entrance and apology for the necessity of disturbing his frantic fussing over his charge. 'King's orders', he'd said, not taking his intense and slightly angry eyes off the man on the patient's bed; though Gaius hazarded a guess that the knight's irritation was not with his ward. After several impatient sighs and requests to move out the way, so that he could apply the necessary potions, tinctures and a cool compress to his patient, Gaius had exasperatedly snapped at the knight to stand either well back from the bed or outside the door. Since Gwaine was reluctant to let Merlin out of his sight - for personal reasons as well as to carry out his orders - he chose the former. It had not taken many more minutes, however, for Gwaine to push even the physician's great patience beyond the boundaries of his endurance, as he poked and prodded the many tools, books and knickknacks in a vain attempt to dispel his pent-up anxiety for his young friend.

Gaius' eyebrow sunk back down, and his eyes warmed a little with empathy, as he said, "Yes, well, since you don't have a lot to guard just yet, you can help me by crushing that horseradish in the big mortar there." He lifted a part-gloved hand to flick a finger in the direction of the table that held said implement and ingredient. When the knight looked over where he had pointed, but made no move to get to the task, Gaius added, "It's for Merlin's cough medicine."

Having heard the magic word, Gwaine immediately strode over to the table, placed his sword on it and sat down on the stool beneath; picking up the pestle that lay beside the bowl. The corner of Gaius' mouth twitched into a triumphant smile, before he bent his head back down, took the now-warm compress from Merlin's forehead, and dunked it in the bucket by his feet.

As if the removal of the wet cloth had been his signal to act, the warlock suddenly began coughing. And coughing, and coughing, and coughing; curling in on himself and throwing the many layers of blankets askew, as his body fought to rid itself of the infection riddling its airways. Abandoning the cloth, Gaius stood and reached over to a nearby table to grab two vials he had placed at the ready earlier, before sitting back down and placing a hand on his ward's arm.

"Merlin, can you hear me?" he said, giving the arm a gentle shake. But the warlock was either still unconscious, or too delirious to acknowledge him, and his eyes remained closed while he continued to hack and gasp.

Gaius sighed heavily and attaching his other arm to the shuddering man, he attempted to pull him straighter and more upright in the bed, in order to feed him the medicine that would hopefully ease his symptoms. Gwaine, seeing the old man's struggles, leaped from his seat and carried it to the other side of the cot; where he sat down and thrust an arm under his friend's juddering back. He placed his other hand on a skinny bicep, and held it as tight as he dared without causing bruises, to steady the man enough for Gaius to do the necessary.

Finally, the coughs died away to leave Merlin taking shallow and noisy draws of breath, and his guardian took the opportunity to shove the rim of the vial between pale, cracked lips as he muttered encouragements to swallow. Gaius gave a grim smile of satisfaction when he saw the small movements of Merlin's throat muscles prove his skills in persuasion. He quickly uncorked the other vial, and held it to Merlin's mouth.

"Just one more, my boy," he assured him softly, when Merlin uttered a negative-sounding grunt, and tried to move away from the foreign object pushing on his lips. Merlin thankfully had enough awareness to capitulate to the request, so that Gaius was able to tip the orange-coloured gloop down as well.

At a nod from the physician - who had re-corked the empty vials, and laid them on the table - Gwaine lowered his friend back down to the bed and carefully extricated his arm. The two older men watched in silence as Merlin's hitching breaths gradually evened out into a pattern that indicated a return to deep sleep. Content that the medicines were doing their job, and his ward would not wake again for at least a few hours, Gaius reached a wrinkled hand to press first his forehead, and then his thin, white wrist. Though he could feel Gwaine's questioning eyes boring into the side of his face, he kept it stoic enough to give nothing away, until the knight finally lost his patience.

"Well?"

Instead of replying, Gaius fidgeted with the blankets; ensuring they were all pulled back in place, before he reached down, wrung out the cloth, and placed it back where it could do the most good.

Annoyance furrowing his brow at the ignored question, Gwaine said, a little louder, "Gaius, are you going to tell me how Merlin is, or am I going to have to force it out of you?"

Gaius raised his eyebrow sarcastically. "And just how do you think you could possibly-"

"I was in this tavern once on the northern border of Mercia, when-"

"He's doing as well as can be expected," Gaius said hurriedly, and with a grimace of distaste.

Gwaine smirked at the victory of his diversionary tactic and pushed on with the next question that had been burning his tongue, since he'd heard that Merlin had been moved from the dungeon. "Is he going to be alright?"

Gaius fiddled with a loose thread on one of the half-fingers of his left glove, before looking back up to the knight's expectant gaze. "Yes, I think we caught it just in time...again," he said. "Assuming I can get some food in him soon."

Gwaine smiled in relief and then, tossing the hair out of his eyes, said with his usual swagger, "I can help with that, if you like?"

"Thank you, Gwaine," the physician said quietly; briefly returning the smile.

Seeing that his brute strength was no longer required in the care of his friend, the knight decided to apply it to something else, and dragged his stool back over to the table he'd been sat at. Moments later, the sound of metal pounding against vegetation made Gaius raise first his eyes, and then the corners of his mouth, at the sight of the knight resuming his task without reminder or protest. Gaius found the monotonous sound very therapeutic in an odd sort of way, and he had just begun to drift off into an unplanned doze, when he was jolted awake by Gwaine's voice; which seemed uncommonly loud in the quiet room.

"How did _you _find out about it?"

Gaius only had to blink confusedly a couple of times before it dawned on him what Gwaine was talking about. Given the fact that Gwaine was with Arthur the night Merlin had been thrown into the dungeons, and had therefore likely born witness to the same things that Arthur had, there could only be one thing he was referring to.

"The same way I expect you did: by accident," he said.

Gwaine frowned at his reply, one hand poised with the pestle, while the other steadied the mortar. "What happened?" he asked.

Gaius sighed and reached forwards to turn the cloth on Merlin's forehead over. His eyes stayed fixed on the face he loved so dearly, and his mouth curved into a small, fond smile, as the memory of their first meeting jostled its way to the front of the many others they'd shared. "The first thing he did, before he had even told me who he was and why he had come, was save my life." He glanced up to see Gwaine's mouth hanging open and his eyebrows raised in surprise, and decided to head off the inevitable barrage of questions by supplying a few more details.

He looked up and flicked a hand in the direction of the balcony above, where he still kept the majority of his books, despite the near-fatality that had happened that day. "I was up there," he said. The old balustrade was weak and should have been replaced long ago. I foolishly leaned on it; it broke and I fell. I would have died, if Merlin hadn't moved this bed," he pointed down to where his rescuer lay, "simply by willing it to be so." Gaius exhaled audibly and shook his head in remembered disbelief. When his voice came again, it was soft and reverent. "I'd never seen anything like that - like him - before. And haven't since. His powers are really quite extraordinary."

"Is that why the dragon called him a warlock, not a sorcerer," Gwaine asked, abandoning the pestle altogether and crossing one arm over the other on the table's surface instead; his head cocked to one side.

Gaius' mouth went dry, though it had nothing to do with the fact that it was hanging open, or that his last inhalation of air was caught in his throat. His mind reeled with all the imagined scenarios of just what had happened the night the King had discovered Merlin's greatest secret. He still had no idea, and he feared making assumptions, saying the wrong thing, and landing Merlin in deeper trouble than he was already in; if that was even possible. Gwaine was still staring at him expectantly, and Gaius stalled a little longer in his reply, by re-moistening first his throat and then Merlin's compress.

Without looking up, he said, his voice wobbling slightly, "I'm not sure I under-"

But he was interrupted by Gwaine again. "What the hell is a warlock, anyway? I've heard the term in my travels, of course, but I just sort of assumed it was another word for a sorcerer."

Relieved both by the knight's casual tone, and the less implicating turn of his questions, Gaius glanced over to see a genuine look of curiosity on the bewhiskered face. "A sorcerer must study the old religion to be able to use their innate talent to perform magic. A warlock uses their magic instinctually from an early age, and therefore doesn't always need to voice a spell for it to work."

"And our Merlin's one of those?" Gwaine said, his eyes wide with awe, as he gazed over at the fitfully-sleeping form.

Gaius nodded slowly. "Yes."

"And powerful, you say?"

"Yes."

"Rare too?"

"I know of only one other warlock in existence, and his powers are not as great as Merlin's. There never has been, and never will be anyone with power as great as his."

"And he decided to live in a city that hates his kind?"

Gaius chose to interpret the question as rhetorical.

Gwaine picked up the pestle again, and began pounding the root pieces with renewed vigour. Then, shaking his head, with an ironic chuckle, he said, "Arthur's right: Merlin _is _an idiot!"

Gaius watched the knight for a moment, as he gave the horse-radish a particularly hard 'thunk', his mind clearly working through a not overly pleasant thought, and a piece flipped out of the mortar to skitter across the table. Gwaine ignored it as he continued to pound the remainder, and Gaius made a mental note to retrieve the errant piece later, rather than interrupt the knight's much-needed therapy by asking him to do so.

"In Merlin's defence, he was not aware that magic was punishable by death here. His mother sent him to me, asking me to look after him, to give him some guidance; help him find a purpose for his gift."

Gwaine lifted his eyes to hold the physician's steadily, his concentrated frown deepening. "Then why did he stay?"

Gaius sighed, staring into space as his mind filled with the many occasions when his beloved ward had come close to having his secret discovered. Each time he had, Gaius' heart had been filled with dread, and his mind with the horrifying memories of countless other friends and acquaintances who had not been so lucky against Uther's ruthlessness. He was sure that he would not be able to survive if Merlin met the same fate. "He found his purpose."

"That the destiny Kilgharrah spoke of?"

It was Gaius' turn to make cod-fish impressions. Gwaine took that as confirmation and decided to forge ahead with another question, in the hope that the physician was distracted enough to answer truthfully. "Which is?"

"Arthur."

The metal pounding and squelching noises ceased completely, and Gaius studied Gwaine, who was looking down at the table; a flabbergasted smile on his lips as he shook his head. "You do pick 'em, Mate! Definitely a candidate for the madhouse you are," he muttered, more to himself. But then his face fell like a stone, as thoughts of recent near disasters and friends with questionable mental states reminded him of how they had gotten themselves in their situation in the first place. "What do you think Arthur will do with him?" he asked, after a couple more minutes of silent reflection; his chore forgotten.

Gaius sighed and shook his head. He fidgeted with the compress in his hand; at a loss for a definitive answer for the very question he had been asking himself over and over through the long hours of the night, and much of the day, when he was supposed to be brewing potions, checking up on patients and writing up the results of his experiments. More often than not, the potions had to be re-brewed after having been spoiled, his patients apologised to for his tardiness, and the experiments abandoned as a bad idea; in light of his inability to think straight, with fear for his ward's safety taking over all thinking capacity from his brain.

He looked over to Merlin's unpeaceful face, where a small crease in the pale forehead provided an oasis for a few drops of sweat to pool; eyes rolling and flickering beneath their lids. "That entirely depends on whether the King knows the full story, before he passes judgement," he murmured.

Gwaine's hands balled into fists on the table, and he glowered at its surface, as if it was to blame for Merlin withholding information about himself, and his master's rash reaction on finding this out. "I could talk some sense into him; make him understand." Although going by the way the knight's lips peeled back slightly to bare his teeth, and his eyes darkened to the shade of charred wood, Gaius seriously doubted that the man would bother talking for long, in favour of allowing his hands to speak for him...in a far from placid fashion.

"Don't, Gwaine!" he said, his voice sharp with warning and worry. And at the rebellious glare he received, he elaborated. "I know you're only thinking of Merlin, but for all our sakes, don't try pushing Arthur into anything. You can take a horse to water, but you can't make him drink."

Gwaine smirked at the analogy. "Well, Arthur only looks marginally like a horse, and if he's not keen on drinking, I'm sure an arrangement can be made. I'm never one to turn down a -"

"You know what I mean, Gwaine," Gaius growled, favouring the cheeky knight with his most humility-inducing glare.

"That I do," Gwaine replied, not looking the slightest bit abashed. "And I might even follow your advice, but that doesn't mean I have to agree with it. If we're talking proverbs here, then many hands make light work."

"Too many cooks spoil the broth!" Gaius countered immediately, raising his voice a little in exasperation at the knight for his ability to have an answer to everything, and with himself for rising to the bait.

"I'm hungry! Are you hungry? Is there anything to eat?" Gwaine's head swivelled round and stretched to peer around the clutter in all directions; hoping to spy an apple or other unclaimed tasty morsel.

Gaius shook his head, astonished at the abrupt change in subject, though he had an inkling the distraction was more for his sake than due to the knight's short attention span. "No, Gwaine," he said, "I'm sorry but I haven't had time to prepare anything." He gestured his cloth-filled hand towards Merlin. It hadn't even crossed his mind that the midday bell had rung some time ago.

"No matter." Gwaine grinned and stood up. "I'll have a word with the kitchens. There's this lovely little serving girl; only started a month ago. Has pretty brown eyes and a lovely, big, round -"

"Yes, thank you, Gwaine," Gaius raised his hand and voice, not wishing to hear any further details of Gwaine's leering hobby. "Some lunch would be most fortifying, if you would be so kind."

"What?" Gwaine held a hand to his chest in a mock affront. "I was going to say 'heart'; she has a lovely, big, round heart."

Gaius harrumphed his lack of faith in Gwaine's innocence, and gave him the eyebrow equivalent of a slap around the head.

With a rakish grin, Gwaine headed for the door, but stopped a stride away from it; looking back over his shoulder.

"What about Merlin?"

Gaius looked down at his patient, a confused frown on his forehead. "What about him?"

"Two things," Gwaine held up as many fingers to illustrate. "Firstly, I'm not supposed to let him out of my sight." One finger lowered. "And secondly, shall I bring anything back for him to eat?"

Gaius rolled his eyes and sighed, then privately wondered at how many times he had been doing that recently. He met Gwaine's waiting gaze. "I don't think he's going to be going anywhere soon. And even if he was," here, he held up a limp wrist, his hand raising the ecru-coloured sleeve up enough to display Merlin's newly-acquired, but not self-chosen adornment, "he's not exactly going to be much of a threat to anyone." He tried, but couldn't quite suppress the slightly bitter tone to his last words. He gently lowered the limb back on the bed; his own hand moving to give his ward's a reassuring squeeze. "So yes, if you could bring back some chicken broth, I'll see if I can coax him to swallow some. He needs the nourishment." _And it might be easier to get some in him while he's not completely lucid and able to refuse_, he mused privately.

Gwaine had turned round fully to face the physician; his brow mirroring the old man's, as he crossed his arms. He glared at the now covered-up manacle. He'd witnessed Arthur's application of them, and had wondered at the almost vindictive look on the King's face as he sealed them in place. But all questions he had asked as to the odd-looking manacles' purpose had been evaded.

"I thought Arthur would have taken them off when he released him," he said. "What are they for, anyway?"

Gaius looked across the room to him, his face bearing an expression like he was sucking a rusted nail. "Merlin has only been released into my care for treatment," he said sourly. "He is still under house arrest. And those," he jerked a chin back towards the bed, "are preventing him from using his magic."

"Oh," Gwaine said, not knowing what else to say. "Do they...hurt?"

Gaius looked down at his ward again, studying his face for anything that would provide an answer to the question. As he had been doing since he discovered the devices on the warlock's arms, on the first night he had been called to attend the unconscious dungeon resident. He shook his head before drawing the breath to reply; his voice dry and husky with suppressed anxiety. "I don't know, I'm afraid. In theory: no. Not to your average magic-user. But Merlin is far and above one of those." He smiled sadly at the riddle his friend, Hunith, had placed in his care, so many years ago. "Normal rules of sorcery don't apply to him."

"What do mean?"

"Merlin has been instinctively using his magic since his days in the crib." Gwaine's eyes widened almost comically. "He has never known a day without the feel of it running through his veins; enhancing his strength and senses, speeding up his ability to self-heal, and so on. It is as much a part of him as his blood and desire for air. Who knows what it must be like to suddenly be cut off from it? Only him, I fear."

Gwaine clenched his fists at his side, his eyes two smouldering pits. "And Arthur did that to him, without checking to see what effect it would have?"

Gaius suddenly felt guilty for stirring such ire towards the King, and raised a pacifying hand towards the fuming knight. "I don't think he truly understands, nor means any real harm towards Merlin. He's just...angry. Confused. He'll come around...eventually."

"Huh! Only when the Princess gets off his high horse and talks to the lad. And I haven't seen any sign of him yet."

"They're friends, Gwaine." The knight rolled his eyes again, but Gaius ignored him and carried on speaking. "When he's ready, he will talk to Merlin. And I have faith that he will find it in his heart to forgive him."

"And does your faith stretch far enough to believe that Merlin will be willing to talk; to stand up for himself?" Gwaine said incredulously; baffled by the physician's unwillingness to intercede on his ward's behalf. "He hasn't been too convinced that speaking is all it's cracked up to be, lately."

Gaius sighed. "Yes, well, let's hope that the fact that he's here, not in the dungeon, is enough to assure him that the King does value his life. Then perhaps he might begin to do the same."

Gwaine airily flicked the hair from his face in what had become such a habit it was almost a twitch. "Whatever you say, Gaius," he said nonchalantly. He gave him a brief grimace, that had delusions of being called a smile, which Gaius tried to return. "Keep an eye on him for me, Gaius, until I get back." And with that, he turned and strode out the door; closing it behind him.

The room seemed cavernously empty all of a sudden. The sound of water being squeezed from a cloth into a rapidly warming bucket was thunderous in the heavy silence.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: Thank you to everyone for all the lovely reviews, follows and favourites. Sorry it's been a bit of a wait; I really struggled to write this chapter, without it being completely pants. Sorry as well about the length. I tried to shorten it, but it kept growing instead (and splitting it into two chapters wouldn't have worked). Anyway, I'll shut up now and let you read...**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin.  
**

* * *

**Chapter 20**

Merlin was harshly torn from his doze by the sound of the outer door to the Physician's chambers banging open, and the outraged voice of his guardian loudly demanding what was going on. Before he could do much more than orientate himself - by blinking rapidly at the ceiling overhead, until it slowly came into focus - he heard the urgent tones of what sounded not unlike Sir Leon's voice. From his position on the bed, and behind the closed door of his room, Merlin couldn't quite make out what was said; only that the knight seemed concerned about something...or someone...and his quick explanations or demands were being interspersed by equally clamorous sounding replies from Gaius. He made an attempt to get up and go to the door, to see if he could see or hear more and find out what was going on, but as soon as he sat up, he was assaulted by such a powerful wave of nausea, the only way he could prevent himself from decorating his bed-clothes and blankets with the meagre contents of his stomach was to lie straight back down.

Merlin therefore had to content himself - after taking several deep and calming breaths - with attuning his hearing as far out towards the main room as he could, and hoping whoever was with Gaius would speak up a bit. Unfortunately, whatever was happening had gone frustratingly quiet, and Merlin was just getting ready to give up trying to hear something he wasn't even sure he had any business worrying about anymore, when he heard the unmistakable voice of his master. Or _former_ master, as he assumed was now the case.

"It's alright, Gaius, it's only a scratch. There's no need to fuss." The King sounded as if he was speaking through teeth clamped in pain, and his voice wavered slightly as he attempted to sound dismissive.

Merlin couldn't help worrying about whatever injury Arthur had received, and he raised his head from the pillow; cocking it to one side, in the hope of deciphering the words of the speakers a bit better. A tiny voice at the back of his mind told him that if one of the people in the other room was to open his door to check on him, he in turn could find out the reason for all the raised, stressed voices. But the larger part of his inner voice soon quashed that foolish notion. What made him think he had the right to be involved in their affairs anymore, or to expect any concern for his wellbeing?

Now that his secret was out, he would be considered the lowliest of all Camelot's inhabitants: a sorcerer, an evil-doing monster, and therefore not worth the time of day (let alone being included in the conversations of Kings and Nobles). In fact, in only a couple of days' time, Gaius would probably declare him fit enough, and he would be returned to the dungeons to await his sentence. At least then this would all be over, Merlin thought, and he would be back on track to fulfilling his plans. No more interruptions or diversions or trying to persuade him of the stupidity of his acts. If Arthur wanted rid of his secret servant sorcerer, then that was how things were meant to be, and he would make no move to protest or escape his fate.

The King's actions, however, didn't quite fit with those of someone convinced that he held under lock and key the vilest of criminals, whose only remaining purpose was to provide an hour's entertainment and lesson to the masses in the courtyard, as he met his end. If Arthur had wanted him dead, why not simply let him succumb to the fortuitous fever he had developed whilst incarcerated below? For that matter, why bother bringing him back to the city at all? Arthur must have had a sword with him that night in the woods - or a similarly heavy object with which to knock his servant unconscious. So why hadn't the King simply used it to apply the extra bit of pressure necessary to finish the job, rather than going to the trouble of ensuring his prisoner was only incapacitated? Did he mean to humiliate the person who had had the audacity to infiltrate his household for so long, undetected, as a means of prolonging the punishment before he granted him release from his miserable life? Or worse still, did he mean to punish those Merlin cared about, and who knew about his magic, before he cut his head from his shoulders, made him swing from a rope or cooked him to a crisp? Merlin didn't believe for a second that he was robbed of consciousness at the exact moment that he was about to consume the Hemlock by coincidence. So why _did_ Arthur stop him? Why did Arthur _keep_ stopping him from doing what the law said had to be done? Was _he_ the one who had a mental deficiency?

Though Merlin had admittedly been feeling on the hairier side of rotten in the dungeon cell, and had been having trouble just focusing his mind and eyesight enough not to throw up or pass out, he did remember parts of a conversation he'd had with the King. And he was sure that Arthur had said that he'd heard him and Kilgharrah talking. Merlin couldn't recall word for word what he had discussed with the great Dragon, but he knew that there had been some fairly incriminating things. Like his part in Morgana's descent into evil and Uther's demise. Were those not offences worthy of execution? Or was he actually still delirious, had not been moved to the much less malodorous accommodations and was instead still in the cell?

No, that didn't seem to fit either. He'd been delirious before; on those occasions, he'd not felt anywhere near as comfortable and clear-headed, and a lot more wobbly and confused. And he didn't usually hear three people he knew having an argument about whether or not Gwaine should be put in the dungeon for a night or two, for going a bit too far in his sparring match with the King, instead of being dragged to the tavern to cool off with Elyan. _Dragged? To the tavern? Gwaine?_

_Eh?_ Merlin hastily tuned back into the conversation in the next room, and out of his own confusing thoughts about Kings who refused to let wrong-doers die, when they had nothing against doing so.

"For the last time, Leon, it's fine, okay?" Arthur was saying. "Gwaine was just..."

"Drunk? Insubordinate? Going berserk with a sword against his King, after he was asked, then warned and finally forced to ease off?" came Leon's rebuttal.

Merlin raised his eyebrows in consternation. What was the matter with Gwaine? Though the man enjoyed a good spar, like any of the knights, and seemed to get a particular thrill in proving the worth of his skills against Arthur, he didn't normally take things that far. In fact, once the first strike had been made, he would be more likely to spend the next few minutes crowing about his success, taunting his losing partner into making a foolish counter-strike and then escaping to the sidelines to jeer at/cheer on his fellow knights in their matches. He rarely allowed his temper to get the better of him, except when facing a true enemy in combat. And even then, his moves were succinct and precise; he didn't take any pleasure in doing more damage than was necessary to bring down his foe, before moving onto the next target.

"I was going to say 'lucky'," Arthur replied. "It was just a lucky hit. And I was a little...distracted, that's all."

"Well, for pity's sake, sire," Gaius cut in, sounding exasperated (though it wasn't clear whether this was due to the argument between knight and King, or the results of Arthur's distraction), "if you're going to allow yourself to get distracted, have the goodness to do it when you're _not_ holding a sword!"

"Yes, thank you, Gaius, I'll bear that in mind."

The corners of Merlin's mouth twitched infinitesimally at the vision of the admonishing glare and raised eyebrow that had probably been directed at the King, and the sheepish look that Gaius would have been given in return.

"Thank you for your help, Leon." A few seconds later, the sound of the outer door opening and closing spelled the exit of someone, or a couple of someones: it was impossible to count the number of footsteps from where Merlin lay.

Silence fell on the room beyond his door, and Merlin found himself relaxing a little. The tension that had built up, as he'd followed the three-way conversation, slowly drained away. The fact that Arthur's injury had to be minor enough to be treated without the need for assistance or tersely-snapped orders, also helped slow his pulse.

As the lull lengthened, Merlin's mind began to ease back into the comforting fuzziness of his interrupted doze. He was just allowing the view of one of the candlesticks on his bedside table to blur out of focus, when a voice penetrated the door, like a slap in the face.

"How's he doing, Gaius?"

Arthur was still out there for some reason. Either the physician had not completed the binding of the King's injury, or Arthur had decided to linger on, and Gaius had not queried this with the royal loiterer.

Merlin did not have think too hard to know who the 'he' was that had been referred to, and lifting his head off the pillow, he pricked his ears to glean a clearer reply.

"He's doing much better, sire, thank you," Gaius replied. "His fever is almost gone, and the chest infection is clearing up nicely, thanks to the tonics I've been giving him, as well as the warmer, drier environment. I cannot thank you enough for allowing him to be treated here, rather than in the dungeons." Merlin marvelled at how his guardian managed to sound both approving and disapproving at the same time.

The warlock shivered and hunched down under the blankets at the thought of the days and nights he had spent in the rank pit of a cell, without the energy to move more than the bare minimum required to relieve himself in the bucket, rather than in his own filthy clothing. And then there were the long hours of loneliness that allowed him to think too much, plus his rodenty cell-mates; keeping him awake with their scrabbling claws and loudly gnawing teeth, as they chewed their way through a stray piece of wood, to get at the weevils inside. Thankfully, they had not had the chance to become accustomed enough to his presence to try sampling the hunger-satiating qualities of his extremities, because with the condition he'd been in, he was not sure if he would have had the strength to give even a rat a discouraging clunk on the head. One thing a spell in the dungeon could do for you was create paranoia for a creature you would have previously thought nothing of, if you happened across one in the dark.

Perhaps, Merlin thought, they ought to employ the services of a cat to keep the rodent infestation in the dungeons in check? If he had any confidence that his opinion would be sought on the matter, he would mention it. But since that was highly unlikely now – if in fact it had ever been – he knew he should just push the unpleasant experience to the back of his mind, along with the many others he'd had to endure over the years in the service of the King. If he could put up with washing Arthur's socks, mucking out the copious-poo-producing horses, and carrying animal corpses during a hunt, he could cope with the memory of overly-friendly rats!

"And did you manage to persuade him to eat, Gaius?"

Merlin's breath hitched momentarily at Arthur's question. Was it his imagination, or did he detect a note of concern in the King's voice? No, he had to be mistaken. And if there was one, then it must be because the King wanted to ensure that his prisoner stayed alive long enough to make it to his own execution.

But now that he thought about it, Merlin did remember the King asking him in the cell why he hadn't eaten anything. Why had Arthur asked such a stupid question, anyway? _'Prat!'_ that small voice in his head wished to say, but he automatically stifled it. Their days of childish name-calling were forever in the past.

"I have managed to get some broth in him, sire, when he wasn't conscious enough to refuse it. So he has been able to regain a little of his strength."

Merlin couldn't help feeling a sudden stab of outrage at his guardian's words, and a sense of having been violated. _How dare they force me to eat! Just whose body is it, exactly?_ It was _his_ choice whether to continue his life or end it, and they had no right taking that away from him. Could they not even grant him the dignity to die in peace and in a manner of his own choosing?

"As a matter of fact, I was just about to take something more solid in to him, and see if I could coax him to eat," Gaius continued.

_Fat chance! _Merlin thought, still feeling a little sick as well as more than a bit mutinous after finding out he had been force-fed, without having the decency to wait until he was conscious and therefore able to put up a fight.

"Why don't I do that, and you can get on with something else, Gaius?"

_Damn! Gaius, tell him that I'm sleeping and to just leave the plate and go. Tell him that it's not necessary and he has more important things to attend to; he's the King, for God's sake! Just get rid of him, _please_, Gaius!_

"Well, if you're sure, sire?" Gaius' voice sounded suspiciously artful, as if he had been hoping for just such an opportunity, and Merlin silently gritted his teeth and frowned at the sensation of being put in a position where he was once again forced to comply. After a pause, the old man continued. "That would be most kind, thank you, sire. I should be getting on with my rounds now, anyway."

_Yeah right, thanks, Gaius! Thanks for nothing!_

"Percival, why don't you go and check on Gwaine; see if he's calmed down a bit, and make sure he's not enjoying himself too much down the tavern? I don't want another bill for three dozen pickled eggs to have to pay."

"Yes, sire."

Merlin was shocked to hear the giant knight's reply. He hadn't realised that there had been someone else in the room with Gaius. Though thinking about it, that did make sense. Despite the more comfortable accommodation, he was still under arrest and...shackled. Of course Arthur would use only his most trusted men to ensure the traitor didn't escape justice. He probably didn't trust the task to the guards, after Merlin had made the last one fall asleep; allowing him to make his bid for freedom.

The sound of the door to the outside world opening and closing again signalled Percival and Gaius' departure. Merlin waited; tense and suddenly afraid, though he wasn't sure why; what was the worst that could happen, after all? His secrets were not so secret anymore. He toyed with the idea of feigning sleep, in the hopes the King would merely drop the food off and tiptoe away again, but Arthur was arrogant and stubborn enough to have no qualms about disturbing his slumber to talk with - or at - him. Merlin was under no illusions that the King had offered to bring his food to him out of any concern or generosity of spirit. The man wanted to talk and this time, rested and haler as he was, Merlin knew he was not going to get out of it by collapsing from being too hot and exhausted.

Minute after suspense-filled minute passed by, and Merlin began to wonder - as he stared hard enough at the door to drill a sizeable hole through it - if Arthur had changed his mind. And though he allowed himself to feel tendrils of relief take hold in his churning stomach, there was also the tiniest seed of disappointment. The thought that everything they had once had, all their years of friendship and adventures together truly were lost and forgotten with that one truth finally known about himself. And he had never felt more what a curse his magic was, than at that moment. Not only was it responsible for destroying so many lives, but even knowing that he had it spelled certain disaster for the recipient of the knowledge. It killed or broke beyond repair the hearts of all those who found out he had it: as it had done to Will, Freya, his father, and Lancelot. Now it had destroyed the friendship he had with Arthur, and with it any hope he'd had - however small - that he'd been wrong; that Arthur did not hate him, think him evil, or rue the day they'd met.

Suddenly, there was the sound of boot soles scuffing on the steps leading to his door, and he could not help gasping and then holding his breath, while he watched, unblinking, as the door handle turned. Light from the larger windows in the room beyond seeped in, and he could not take his eyes off the door as the gap grew. Blue eyes immediately latched onto his and came to a full stop; taking in his wakeful state and rapt attention.

Merlin allowed himself a small breath, and then another; each time only just enough to allow his lungs a reprieve from the halting of their function; unwilling to allow his greed for air to turn into a full blown panic that there wasn't enough of it in the room to meet his needs. He swallowed hard and blinked, but otherwise kept his gaze steady on the face of the man who now filled his doorway. He tried desperately to gather clues of the emotions he knew must be lying just below the surface of those familiar features, but after the initial surprise he'd seen at finding him conscious, anything else had been pushed aside and replaced with the emotionless mask the King reserved for dreaded but unavoidable confrontations.

It was Arthur who broke eye-contact first, as he turned to shut the door behind him. Merlin swallowed again, trying hard not to let his heart beat so fast in protest at the thought that the King was cutting off his only escape route (not that he was in much of a state to do any escaping at the moment, but it was a habit he's been forced to form over the years). When Arthur turned back, it was with the same stony expression shaping his face, until his forehead creased with a frown and his eyes narrowed with suspicion.

"Were you eavesdropping, Merlin?" he asked, still standing by the now-closed door, as he watched his ex-servant for signs of subterfuge.

"No," was the instant, not-even-slightly-innocent-sounding response.

Arthur's eyebrow rose sarcastically. "More lies, Merlin?" He sounded more disappointed than angry, however.

Merlin blushed, but refusing to take all the blame, said, "You lot spoke; I heard. I couldn't help the fact I was in here and that you didn't think to whisper so I _wouldn't_ hear you."

Arthur's seemed to concede the point; though as usual, there was no apology for his accusation. Looking down at what he held in his hand, he suddenly remembered his excuse for invading Merlin's sanctuary, and said, "I brought you some food," before looking awkwardly around for an ideal spot to place the plate. He strode the rest of the way to the side of the bed, and placed the offering on the table next to it.

Merlin, following his movements, grimaced slightly, and said a quiet "Thanks," but made no move to reach for the food.

Arthur folded his arms and glared down at him, as if affronted at a meal he had painstakingly put together himself, only to have it rejected. "Aren't you going to eat it?" he asked.

Merlin looked away, his eyes trained on the wall opposite his bed, as he said, "I'm not hungry."

Arthur's eyes narrowed coldly and he hissed, "Tough! Eat! Or I will have no choice but to make you; and you really wouldn't enjoy that."

Merlin frowned and then glared at the King; attempting to decipher the level of his seriousness. But on finding no reason to doubt the man's threat in his stoic look, he let out a long, put-upon sigh, before commencing the struggle to force his body into a more upright position.

Arthur allowed a triumphant smirk to pay his mouth a brief visit, until he saw the difficulty Merlin was having in trying to not remain supine, and instead of revelling in his victory, he reached down to push the man up and shove another pillow behind his back. As Merlin settled himself more comfortably, Arthur snaked a hand to draw the stool beside the bed a little closer and sat down on it. He let out a small grunt of pain, as the movement tugged on his most recent injury, but he ignored it in favour of moving onto the next stage of aiding the invalid. Arthur picked up the plate again and placed it unceremoniously in Merlin's blanket-covered lap. The ex-manservant stared down at the pieces of bread, cheese and slice of cold ham, as if they were in on the conspiracy to disregard his personal choices. But after an exaggerated bit of throat-clearing on Arthur's part, Merlin lifted a begrudging hand to grasp the top-most hunk of bread and then slowly lift it to his lips, where he took the smallest of bites before chewing as slowly as possible.

Arthur rolled his eyes but said nothing, as he relaxed his pose a little and waited for Merlin to eventually swallow and take another ridiculously small morsel in his mouth. Satisfied that for once, his instructions were not being disregarded, Arthur turned to his own discomfort for a moment, and lifted a hand to his bandage and bloodied tunic-covered shoulder, to see if he could massage away the burning sensation that was beginning to grow. When that did nothing to help, he tried rotating the joint, in the hope that loosening up the surrounding muscle tissue would at least stop the whole area from cramping up. After a minute or two, he looked up to see that Merlin had paused in his eating to watch him, a concerned look in his eyes as they were helplessly drawn to the recently-dried bloodstains on his tunic.

"What did Gwaine do?" he asked, his voice rough and low, as he tried to stop himself from - _Oh_ _no, too late!_ He started coughing, and winced at the sharp pain in his throat and chest. Merlin hunched in on himself, trying to lock the coughs and the soreness they induced inside; not wanting to be on the receiving end of any pity. A brown bottle suddenly appeared below his nose, and without much thought as to what it might contain, or the last occasion when he had held a similar bottle to his own lips (in a moonlit field), he took a last whooping breath to keep the coughs at bay and chucked a good glug of the gloopy fluid into his mouth. He grimaced at the odd mix of honey and horse-radish flavours, as the medicine slipped down his gullet; coating his raw larynx on the way. Merlin closed his eyes, and for a moment was too busy savouring the feeling of warmth that began to spread out into his chest - calming the fire that burned there - to notice as a calloused hand extricated the bottle from his lax one and placed the medicine back on the table next to his bed.

"Better?" Merlin simply nodded, before opening his eyes to look at the King, who was just lacing his fingers in his lap, and looking at him with that unexpected hint of concern wafting across his face again. "Well, in answer to your question, and as you probably already heard me say when you were _not_ eavesdropping earlier, it's just a scratch; nothing more than I expected really. But I think it served its purpose, anyway."

Merlin gave him a confused frown.

"I'm here, and you're here, and we _are_ going to talk, whether you or your voice like it or not." Arthur's face was a mask of grim determination, and Merlin swallowed hard at the sudden sensation that the small bit of bread he had eaten would soon be making a bid for freedom. He pushed the plate further away along the blanket and looked down at the space it had left in his lap.

"I didn't say you could stop eating." Arthur sounded like he was sternly addressing a child, and Merlin pursed his lips as a feeling of rebellion stole through his chest, enticing him to snap a retort at the King. He bit the words back before they could leave his lips though. This was a conversation he was not exactly looking forward to, and it wouldn't do to rile the King before they had even arrived at the parts that would really make him lose his rag.

"I'm full," he murmured instead.

Arthur's harrumph was more than a little disbelieving, but he removed the plate from the bed anyway, and placed it next to the medicine bottle.

Silence settled on the room once more, and Merlin began to wonder if the King was expecting him to make the first move, but his mouth was determined to stay shut and his eyes to not stray from the bed covers, so he simply waited; anxiety starting to swell like a pus-filled abscess in his gut, as he absently plucked at the pilling of the top-most blanket.

"Where did you meet him?" The King's voice, when it came, was like a loud gong going off in the still, tense room.

Merlin looked up to see the King looking at him, his face blank but his eyes swimming with too many emotions to even begin to separate and label them. "Huh? What? Who are you-"

"The old man," Arthur cut in impatiently.

_Oh, right, straight for the jugular then, Arthur! Not going to maybe start with the smaller, easier to handle questions in order to slowly build up to the earth-shattering ones, are you?_ "Oh, him."

"Yes, _Mer_lin, him. You must have met him somewhere: been introduced to him, or happened across him or sought him out. Whatever it is, you decided to conspire with him; form a partnership of sorts. Well I want – no, I need - to know everything this time, Merlin. No more lies, secrets, or cover-ups. I WILL have the truth, and this time, you ARE going to give it to me."

Merlin could see the struggle the King was going through to keep his anger in check, though it leaked in small ways: his tightened jaw, the way his interlocked fingers kept squeezing his knuckles, and the biting tone. It was an unusual sight, to _not_ see his former friend give full rein to his wrath, and for a moment, Merlin was struck dumb by it. He had expected this particular subject to be broached with - at the very least - a good deal of shouting, followed by perhaps a fist to his jaw or a dagger to his throat. But as it was, his ears were not deafened and his skin was not marred, so something had happened or someone had changed, and he didn't think it was himself.

"Well?"

_Oh yeah, he's still waiting. I'm not going to be able to get away with giving him the silent treatment this time._ "I...I...it's complicated."

Arthur leaned towards him, in what could be construed as a return to his more typical, threatening behaviour, and Merlin naturally angled away slightly.

"Then _un_-complicate it!" Arthur hissed.

Merlin winced at his tone. Arthur didn't look the slightest bit contrite, and when Merlin still didn't answer him fast enough, he added impatiently, "Come on, _Mer_lin, I know you've known him a long time - you must have done, since he planted that poultice under my pillow all those years ago - but even you can't have forgotten how or when you met the man! Or is he a relative; your grandfather, perhaps?"

Merlin felt himself gaping at Arthur's unlikely ability to have put two and two together; only on this occasion he'd made five. "He...I...it's -"

"Oh for God's sake, Merlin, just fucking spit it out will you!" Arthur had quite quickly lost his hold on his temper, in the face of Merlin's stammering reluctance. "Is it really so bloody hard for you to tell the truth?"

"IT'S ME!" Merlin yelled, or as close to a yell as he could manage, with his sore throat. He glared at the King; his blanket bunched in his fists.

"What's you?" Arthur replied, somewhat quieter than before; his face the picture of confusion.

"He is: Dragoon."

Arthur's face at first became devoid of emotion, and then it shifted into the familiar arrogance and incredulity Merlin had seen more often than he cared to recall. "You: the old man? How the hell -"

"Aging spell," Merlin mumbled.

Arthur stilled, and Merlin watched him; holding his breath and with a grimace of wary anxiety on his own face, as he waited for the fall-out of the King's realisation and emotional explosion to occur. The blonde man stared into him, his mouth open; daring him to admit to this being yet another lie. Merlin poured all the honesty, self-hate and remorse that he could into the look that he returned; his mouth twitching in an effort to repress the tears that stabbed at his eyes.

Then Arthur's features morphed, and it was into the look Merlin had most dreaded seeing it form. He had seen that same expression on Arthur's face when Ygraine - conjured from death by Morgause - had told Arthur about the events that had lead to his birth. He had also seen it when the two of them had watched, hidden from sight above the great hall, as Morgana had taken the crown from their father's head, and placed it on her own. It was the look of a man who had first had a bucket of cold water chucked in his face, then his heart torn - still beating - from his chest. And it was the one he had been most determined to never be responsible for placing there. The anguish of betrayal.

Merlin hung his head, feeling sick with shame; the few bites of bread he had managed to force down his gullet turned to burning coals. He waited then, for the sound of steel leaving leather; for the searing pain of metal parting flesh and the warm wetness of blood splashing over skin. And waited...but instead...

"Why, Merlin?" The voice matched the face he had seen with its pain; its inability to believe, even when confronted with the truth. It was husky and unsteady and caught in the throat of the King, as if the words were too large and sticky to be properly released. "Why would you do that to me? After all we've been through together? I...I thought we were friends? Did you not believe me when I said I would allow magic back into the kingdom; to let sorcerers live in peace? Was that all a ruse to get my hopes up; to agree to my request, when all along, you planned to murder my father in revenge for him killing your kind? Why bother with the charade, Merlin? You've been living here how many years now? Are you really that incompetent it's taken you this long to get the job done? Why go to all the trouble of making me think you were my friend, that you cared about me and were loyal to me, when all you were waiting to do was find the right moment, when I was so vulnerable I would have agreed to anything, and then tear the rug out from under me? Why, Merlin, WHY?"

Arthur's voice had steadily risen during his tirade of questions, the blood blooming rapidly in his face, until with clenched jaw, white-knuckled fists and watering eyes, he was blasting the words across the small space, loudly enough to make the walls almost vibrate. Merlin had to swallow hard several times, feeling the bile rising in his throat. His eyes started to burn as the salt water pooled behind his tear ducts.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, "I didn't mean to. I tried so hard to heal him, I really did, but it all went wrong."

"Wrong? I should fucking well think so! Trust an incompetent oaf like you to bugger up a simple healing spell, especially when it really... What? Wait a minute. You tried? You mean you were actually _trying_ to heal him?" Arthur asked, his voice still loud and demanding, but tempered by a touch of hope; wanting the man he thought he'd known to be redeemed in some small way; not wanting to believe that he had become the epitome of evil overnight.

Merlin dropped his face into his hands, shaking his head. "I should have known. Everything I do goes wrong. I should have listened to Gaius."

"Gaius? What did he have to do with it?"

"He told me not to do it; to leave things well alone. But I didn't listen. I was so...arrogant. So stupid. Y...you're right: I'm _such_ an idiot."

"Well, that goes without saying," Arthur said, a hint of the old irony in his voice. "But I don't understand. What went wrong, if you were trying to heal him, as you say? He did seem to be getting better for a moment - he woke and spoke - so something you did must have worked." Merlin nodded, though he couldn't bring himself to meet the blond man's eye. "Then why -"

"The pendant," Merlin interrupted. "Gaius said it-"

"What pendant?" Arthur demanded sharply

"The one Morgana put there, to reverse healing spells. I didn't know it was there, I...I should have known she might try something; I should have chec-"

"Morgana? _She_ did this? She was here? But how did she..." Arthur's voice trailed away as he frowned; staring into mid-space. A myriad of emotions ebbed and flowed across the King's face. Pain at the memories that assaulted his inner vision; the events that had made him King. Anger and betrayal that the man sitting not three feet from him was the old sorcerer he had stupidly begun to hope would prove his father wrong - in his assumption that all their kind was malicious in intent - by saving Uther's life. Disbelief that rather than the old man being his father's murderer, as he had been content to believe for so many months, it was his own sister. Confusion as to how she had found out that their father was in need of a magical cure and that Arthur had sought one, when it went against everything he had been taught. Alarm at the fact that she had been able to sneak into the castle to place the pendant around their father's neck, without it coming to the attention of even a single guard. Deep sadness that Morgana's hatred had grown so insatiable, that she had sunk to the level of patricide to curb her appetite. And then a dawning realisation, which smoothed his puckered brow and widened his eyes with what could almost be considered hope.

Arthur looked back over to the warlock and said, slowly, as if still trying to place all the pieces of the puzzle in some semblance of order. "Is...is this true, Merlin, or just another of your lies? Because if I find out you're lying to me..."

"I can ask Gaius to show you the pendant, if you don't believe me," Merlin said in a small voice. "He...he wanted to destroy it, for fear it could end up in the wrong hands, but he was even more afraid of what would become of the dark magic if it was released." Merlin couldn't quite stop his nose from wrinkling with disgust as he remembered how 'wrong', how malevolent the magic - that had rolled off the item of jewellery in waves - had felt. He shuddered and swallowed down the bile that rose in his throat.

Arthur's voice, low and still rough from the shock of the new revelation, interrupted the warlock's thoughts. "But...but then this means that Morgana was the one who killed him. Not the sorcer- not you."

Merlin looked up, his hands falling away to reveal his eyes - red and streaming - as he said loudly and vehemently, "But _I_ was the one who said the spell! _ I_ ended his life. If I had not encouraged you, taken you to that charcoal maker's hut to see...well, me...then nothing would have come of it."

"He would still have died." Arthur raised an eyebrow in reluctant acceptance of the fact.

"Yes, but not by MY hand," Merlin said, and stabbed a thumb to his chest. "I did it; I killed him, as surely as I did all those others. His blood is on _my_ hands."

Arthur frowned and narrowed his eyes, and with a voice once more forged in steel, he said. "What others, Merlin? What else have you been hiding from me over the years? I told you I want to know everything, so you'd better start telling me."

Merlin shrugged and said hollowly, "Why does it matter?"

Arthur huffed noisily, betraying his rapidly thinning patience with Merlin's resistance to comply. "Look, I already know you're a sorcerer, so you may as well tell me everything now."

Merlin gave a mirthless chuckle and turned to look at his one-time friend. "Why, so you can execute me more than once? One death for each spell I have cast; each lie I have told; each life I have taken? I think the crowd would get bored watching you kill me that many times! Why not just do it now and be done with me?"

Arthur attempted to hide the shock on his face with a mocking frown. "Why are you so anxious to die, Merlin?"

"Because I deserve it. I've killed, and not just once; many times."

It was clear by Arthur's paling face and wide eyes that he hadn't expected to see such brash honestly in his ex-servant's eyes and it disturbed him greatly. His voice, when he managed to get it working, was tight and small. "How many?"

Merlin looked away, his features stricken with guilt and self-loathing. He shook his head. "Too many."

"Merlin!" Arthur's tone was laden with warning to drop his evasiveness that instant.

Merlin sighed and placed the heels of his palms over his eyes, as if blocking his sight would prevent him from having to see the memories again; each terrible moment that ravaged his sleep with nightmares. "Are we just talking about the ones I killed personally, or the ones who died because of me as well?" After a few seconds with no reply, he lowered his hands to his lap and slowly turned his head to gaze over at the King.

Arthur looked like he was trying to catch flies and fill any remaining space on his face with his ridiculously-enlarged eyes. After one or two quite comical-looking gulps, the King managed to gather enough saliva to partially clear his throat and gruffly say, "Why don't you start at the beginning. I want you to tell me everything you've done since you came here. And I want the unabridged version, Merlin, so don't skimp any details. It's not like you can get in anymore trouble that you're already in!"

Merlin stared at the king, gauging his sincerity. It was impossible to tell what he was thinking, but judging by the continual clenching of his jaw and the way his fingers twitched on his knees (as if resisting the urge to grab something metal and designed to wound every few seconds) he was rapidly running out of patience.

"Very well, sire, if that is what you wish," Merlin said, following a sigh of resignation. "But can I ask you for a final boon first?"

Arthur frowned, but gave a single, curt nod for Merlin to proceed with his request.

"Please don't kill them."

"Arthur's frown deepened. "Them?"

"My mother and Gaius. They are the only ones left who know, sire, and it's not their fault. They were merely trying to protect me." Merlin stared pleadingly into Arthur's eyes; his own beginning to water again. "Please don't punish them in my stead, your majesty."

Arthur stared back at him, his face once again registering alarm; but this time tempered with hurt. "What on earth made you think I would punish them?" he said indignantly.

Merlin looked down; unwilling to look at his King as he admitted, "Because killing me would bring you no satisfaction, when you know I would welcome it."

* * *

Arthur's mouth first ran dry and then quickly filled with a taste that resembled what he imagined it would be like to suck a rotten pickled egg, until it completely dissolved. Did Merlin really think so little of him? Did he truly believe that he would go out of his way to murder the servant's family just to see him suffer? What kind of sick despot did he take him for? That was the sort of thing his father... Arthur shook his head, dispelling the image of the wise old physician (who had been a friend to his family for as long as he could remember), and the kind, gentle Hunith (who had struck Arthur, from the moment he had met her, as the female embodiment of all that was good in his servant), being burned on a pyre. It made his stomach twitch painfully to think that if his father was alive, the terrible vision would no doubt have been made a reality, with no better excuse than that the two harmless individuals had harboured a sorcerer.

He was _not_ his father; that was a fact he had known from the time he had been forced to watch his first execution. A boy of only ten years old, shaking with fear and disgust at the sight and sounds of a youth – only five years older than himself – being burned alive. His father had looked on; his steely gaze and face filled with righteousness and peace of mind at a job well done; another potential enemy removed before he could gain enough knowledge in the evil arts to destroy Camelot and her citizens. Smiling down proudly at his son, he had pressed a rare, fatherly hand of reassurance on his shoulder; having mistaken the boy's expression for anxiety that the criminal would somehow escape or curse him with his dying breath, when in fact all the young prince could think was that the burning, screaming boy had done nothing to prove that he intended to harm anyone. And much as he still respected his father as a strong, determined leader, he knew – from their numerous arguments (and his subsequent punishments) – that there were many things they would simply have to agree to disagree on.

Like what to do with friends-turned-sorcerers who hated themselves for what they were and had done, and who, even after seven years in his service, he actually knew so little about. Yes, a decision would have to made on what to do with the man, when all this was over, but it was a decision he could not in good conscience make without knowing all the facts. Merlin had committed crimes that were punishable by death – several times over, if what he said was true – not least of which was the felony of using magic. Whether or not he had been born with it, and been able to use it from a very young age – and Arthur was still uncertain as to whether he truly believed that, despite having been told it was so by the man he turned to as his first choice when faced with a new and indecipherable problem – the fact remained that magic was banned and punishable by death for a reason. And even if that reason proved to be fallible in more ways than one, could he really go before his council, knights and subjects to oppose it?

Arthur took a slow, deep breath to clear his thoughts. There would be time enough to debate justice, suicidal idiots and out-of-date laws later; after more sleep, food, and quiet thinking time. Now, he needed to gather the facts. Opening his eyes, his gaze shifted back over to the bed and its nervous-looking occupant, and he realised one thing that had slipped his notice, with all the effort he had spent on contemplating his own anxieties and unhappy memories. Merlin could benefit just as much as he would from getting whatever he had to say off his chest.

"Just get on with it, _Mer_lin." And he could not help feeling the smallest spark of satisfaction at the momentary upward curl of his friend's lips, on hearing a hint of the familiar, fond impatience in his employer's voice.

Merlin swallowed and winced at the soreness in his throat, but after accepting, downing, and numbly thanking Arthur for the cup of water he was passed, he began his tale.

Gradually, and with many pauses, stutters and coughs (calmed to a certain extent by the refills of his cup and a couple more swigs of the cough medicine), the warlock revealed the things that Arthur had – sometimes – been present for, but not seen. Somewhere in the back of Arthur's mind, the small voice that had queried his luck at the time - but had been summarily dismissed for more important concerns - reasserted itself; reminding him of just how dire the circumstances had been, and how much worse they could have been, had he not had the magical assistance. For now that he had a few more of the missing pieces to the intricate puzzle that was Merlin's life in Camelot so far, there was no question that without his help, he would have died many times over; as would any number of his people, his father, Gwen, the knights...the list was endless. Yet still Merlin seemed to hold no pride in his achievements; and Arthur got a strong sense – from the long, meandering, mainly one-sided conversation – that this was to a greater part due to Merlin's belief that the mistakes he had made and the bad things he had done far outweighed the good.

Arthur had no doubt that despite his warnings against doing so, Merlin had held back some information in certain recollections; mostly, he felt, where the memory became too painful or too intimate for his friend to put it into words. He bit his tongue on so many occasions, to prevent himself from interrupting too frequently, he was sure that by the end of the session, it would be too swollen for him to be able to make more of a contribution to the conversation. Sometime later, when Arthur had had the chance to process all he had learned, perhaps he would revisit those adventures Merlin had described more vaguely, and ask the questions that currently burned his mouth for want of an escape into the space between them. But for now, he had enough to go on to paint a vivid picture of the heart of this man of magic.

For his own heart, it had been a wild and not always pleasant journey of emotions; with leaps and drops in equal measure. One minute, Merlin was telling him that he had killed a High Priestess of the Old Religion - by calling down lightning to strike her - after she had tried to take first his mother's then his mentor's life in exchange for Arthur's own. And the next, he was recounting how he had dived into a lake to prevent his master from drowning, after a Sidhe had tried to buy her way back into Avalon with his soul. Though he had immediately regretted it (on seeing the resultant look of shame on Merlin's face), Arthur could not help recoiling - his face aghast and pale - at the thought of the power the man must be able to wield, in order to command the elements. It was the stuff of folk tales and legends; spoken to scare bad-mannered children into obeying their parents' demands. It was certainly not something the King ever expected to hear told of one of his subjects; let alone one who had - until recently - been responsible for folding his laundry and scrubbing wine stains off his floor, while his master threw utensils at his head. But it was just one of the many incongruities his mind was struggling so hard to make sense of.

Yes, this man had killed, maimed, deceived and lied; but, as it turned out, never without cause. Each death, whilst disturbing - more so because of the fact that Merlin had caused it, than because the victim hadn't earned it - could be equated with at least one life saved. Was that so different from the deeds of a knight? He himself could recall nearly every one of the lives he had taken over the years in the defence of his people, his brothers-in-arms, his friends and himself. And even though he appreciated their necessity, it did not mean he felt no guilt, and didn't lie awake at night; berating himself for hasty choices made under extreme circumstances. Many of those deaths still haunted him, but as a knight, he had had to come to terms with the consequences of doing his duty; fulfilling his oath to protect and to serve his city.

_No man is worth your tears._

Its significance could be applied in many ways, and it was something he recited to himself before every battle; a prayer to the lives he knew he would be unable to prevent being lost. And each time he found himself questioning his belief in the words. While his tears for fallen comrades and loved ones did not fall for all to see on the outside, inside they flowed like a spring from his aching soul. He had never mastered the ability to stem their tide; and neither - it seemed - had Merlin. Worse still, his friend had not had the benefit of a knight's training; had never learned the skills to cope with war and loss. And all this time, throughout his service, that is what he had been doing: taking part in a war against evil-doers (magic or otherwise). Alone and unprepared. It was a wonder he had not slipped down the slope of self-condemnation sooner!

Arthur remembered sharing the adage he taught all his men with Merlin once. Now, though, he shuddered with self-recrimination for the inappropriateness of having said it to him when he had. Merlin hadn't just been mourning the death of a man who could have rescued the flailing city from its reptilian foe. He had met and lost his father in the space of a couple of days, and by doing so, he had unwittingly given himself yet another reason to fear for his existence. He had become the last Dragonlord: Camelot's only hope for survival and at the same time, an enemy to its king.

Arthur's anger had flared unconsciously at Merlin's cringe-enhanced and blush-painted admittance to this particular deception. But it had almost instantly burned away to no more than an ember in his already-twisted guts. Yes, Merlin had released the beast in the first place. Yes, he had lied to his friend and master, in telling him the creature had perished, and by whose hand. And yes, he had continued to have clandestine rendezvous with the dragon, long after he'd banished it. But Arthur could see what his father never even tried to: the dragon should never have been caged. It had only lashed out in anger against its captors, and when Merlin had inherited the power to destroy it, he had shown a mercy Arthur was not sure he could have equalled, were their positions reversed.

Arthur looked – really looked - at the pale, skinny young man before him, as he mumbled name after name, and circumstance after circumstance; like a long string of viscera being released by a disembowelment. But however hard he tried, he couldn't see someone who killed without thought or regret; who did so without a just purpose. Yes, he made mistakes – and given the importance of the decisions he'd had to make, they had had pretty dire consequences – but then Arthur himself was no stranger to those. Only a scant few months ago, he had nearly brought his kingdom to war as a result of his desire to prove his strength and wilfulness to Caerleon's King. And he still had nightmares about the time he had almost been responsible for starving to death every citizen in Camelot, due to his puerile desire to impress his father with a unicorn's horn. On both occasions, he remembered with a sense of irony, Merlin had been there; warning him against his foolish acts. And as Merlin had done with Gaius' prophetically accurate advice, Arthur had ignored his servant, to his regret. Maybe they had more in common than he had previously thought?

Judging by Merlin's almost choked voice, as he relived the terrible moments of their shared past, the events involving Morgana's change from kind and caring lady of the court to vengeful, destructive witch troubled him the most out of all the misdeeds he'd accused himself of. Perhaps Morgana's hatred and eagerness for revenge could in part be attributed to Merlin's refusal to acknowledge her abilities and admit to his own (and poisoning her shortly after probably hadn't helped much in proving his benevolence towards her), but he was not solely to blame for the enemy she had become. Merlin had not known her for as long as Arthur had, so he had been unaware of the less than altruistic downside to her natural urge to gain justice by any means, and be acknowledged as superior to those she deemed unfairly held in higher esteem than her. His own frequent run-ins with the woman he had grown up with, fought with, and lost many battles to (both physical and verbal) were testament to that! And then there was the fact that the man she had grown up calling 'father' was not so, while the one who actually _could_ claim the title had refused to acknowledge her heritage and killed everyone who displayed the same talents as she did.

Life may be dreadfully unfair at times, but that didn't give anyone the right to enact their displeasure with it on those whose only crime was ignorance! And unlike their father, he _would_ have helped her, had he been aware she needed to be helped. He simply would not believe that he had been so far immersed in his father's indoctrination of magic's depravity to have ignored the pleas for understanding from his adoptive sister. Hadn't he proved that to her when he'd assisted in the escape of that Druid boy, Mordred? And even when he'd discovered that Morgause was a sorceress (and had more than likely won their duel with the aid of magic), he'd held true to his honour by meeting her challenge, instead of striking her down on the spot.

"_All I know for sure is that I've lost both my parents to magic. It is pure evil. I'll never lose sight of that again."_

_Oh._ Arthur felt the blood drain from his face and extremities. Throughout the lengthy near-monologue he had been listening to, it had been all too easy to lay the blame for Merlin's unwillingness to share all the hardships and – sometimes literally – painful sacrifices on the man's innate stubbornness and moody (or, as Arthur liked to call it, 'girly') tendencies. But suddenly the realisation hit him, like a snowball to the face: Merlin had been too afraid to share, because Arthur had never proven to him that it was safe to do so. For all that he had questioned (and then quickly dismissed) the notion that not all magic-users were of malicious intent, he had been too eager to prove himself a strong King and worthy son. He had been too much of a coward to challenge a regime that had become so firmly established as to insight distrust and disapproval if queried. It was not an easy task to bear the mantle of responsibility without the backing of his council, elders and people. And thanks to his father, they did not trust magic.

Only one man had had any bearing on Arthur's insecurities and concerns. And now that man had lost so much faith, he would destroy himself, and forever remove the pillar his King – his friend – had found himself leaning on, too many times for his own comfort. He was a King, and from as early as he could remember, he had been taught to rely on no-one; to face his challenges alone, with stalwart conviction and with his fears buried beneath an immoveable facade. Whilst his father encouraged the use of others to achieve his ends – as one would any tool – ultimately, culpability lay with him; to think otherwise, was to appear too dependent and weak.

Yet here he was: a champion to his people in name only, because someone else had been fighting his cause; unacknowledged and resolved to remain so, for fear of being condemned, despite the heroism of his intent. How was Arthur supposed to respond to that?

The absence of sound grew louder in his ears, and he realised that Merlin had stopped speaking. Arthur had taken it all in - on a subliminal level at least - but he was finding the task of processing all that he had been told almost an impossible one.

Without looking at his surroundings, his mouth said on his behalf, "Is that everything?" And he was shocked at his own question, because he was not really sure if he wanted to know the answer; on top of all that he had already learned in the past hour or two (judging by the quality of the light streaming through Merlin's bedroom window). He was fairly certain most of it wasn't actually sinking in, and wouldn't do for a while. No doubt it would provide the basis for several nights' worth of nightmares, and much stirring of meals without actually tasting the food.

The king looked intently at his servant, as he pondered what next to say and do. The young man was looking at his own trembling hands, as if unable to believe that they belonged to him or that they could be guilty of performing all the deeds he had described. Arthur's heart hitched at the sight. Should he applaud such acts? But equally, could he condemn a man who had irrevocably scarred his soul to save and protect? Under the circumstances, would he have chosen to do anything differently? Would he have had the courage to do what had to be done, or would he have hidden behind his shield and sword; trying to convince himself of the fallacy that strength and bravery alone could prevail against his enemies.

After what seemed to be an inordinately long pause to consider what should be a simple 'yes or no' answer, Merlin slowly lifted his deeply sad, red-rimmed eyes to glance through moistened lashes at his King. He nodded and looked down again; seemingly unable to find the strength to keep his head up for longer.

"I see," Arthur replied solemnly, unsure if he did or did not believe him, but not having the heart to query him on it. He had resolved, in the few minutes before he had entered Merlin's room, not to pass judgement to the man's face. Whatever he was going to learn that afternoon, he meant to file away and mull over at a distance, where he would not be influenced by a sick, morose or pleading man tugging overly hard at his heartstrings; preventing him from being objective about what to do with him. Only after he had exhausted all avenues of thought would he make his decision and share it with those that mattered. He was not a cruel man, though he knew leaving his prisoner in limbo much longer was unfair. But neither was he willing to give the impression that anyone – even someone he had grown as close to as he had Merlin – could lie to and keep secrets from him without some sort of redress.

Still looking at the blanket, Merlin suddenly said, in a voice rough from overuse, "Your father was right, Arthur. I _am_ evil. I _am_ a monster. And I am cursed; like she was."

Arthur was just starting to open his mouth to question who 'she' was (having the strange feeling that it was probably a participant in one of the stories Merlin had skirted over, to spare himself from reliving something unbearably painful), when Merlin continued speaking.

"Everyone I care about, who finds out about my magic, dies. The only ones I have left are my mother and Gaius, and they have almost been taken from me more than once. It is only a matter of time."

Arthur couldn't help feeling a pang of regret that he was no longer considered among those Merlin cared about, though he supposed that after all Merlin had done for him, and after all he had not done in return, it was no less than he deserved. He was, however, not given long to feel sorry for himself, as Merlin was not finished.

"And now _you_ know, Arthur, so it is up to you to break the curse. You _have_ to do it."

Arthur's voice, when he answered, was low and claggy. He did not even have the wherewithal to try to clear his throat of the growing lump in it. "And what would that be, Merlin?"

Merlin paused long enough to sigh, before stating clearly and emotionlessly, "You must kill me."

Arthur felt his heart falter in his chest, and the breath stutter to a stop in his lungs. "Mer-" His mouth had gone so completely dry, he couldn't get more than a single syllable past his lips. He cleared his throat and tasted bile, but thrust it back down, along with the hateful images of Merlin being executed in a number of equally vile ways, which had intruded on his mind's eye.

"Merlin, I didn't...that is to say, I have not passed sentence. This isn't a trial, for God's sake. I just needed to hear your side of the story; to understand just what's been going on behind my back all these years. I never said you were to be executed."

Merlin looked up to glare at him then, and Arthur was taken aback by the man either ignoring what he had just declared, or refuting that it should be so. "But it is the law, and I have broken it. You must; it is the only way to save yourself, and prevent anyone else from suffering from my curse. Every day I run the risk of someone else finding out about my magic, and dying as a result. I can not allow that to happen again; not to you and not to anyone else. And since you seem so determined to stop me from resolving the problem myself, it is down to you to do so. You are the King, and have a duty to protect your people from any threat. Which is what I am now."

Arthur stood up and began pacing the room; his movements stiff and more than a little agitated – not only with the unexpected turn the conversation had taken, and his friend's sickening suggestion, but with the fact that there was such a lack of space in the tiny room to vent his frustrations. Was Merlin really so far gone down the road of self-castigation that nothing anyone said could reassure him of how unnecessarily ridiculous he was being? Was he truly beyond being reasoned with, and was his very sanity now in question?

Then again, did he have a point? If Arthur was to turn over a new leaf and actually start following the advice his friend gave him, should this not be the first (and in effect, the last) suggestion of his that he saw through to completion? There did seem to be an overwhelming amount of evidence in the history Merlin had detailed to support this new and horrifying theory. Listening to Merlin's version of events for the past couple of hours had lulled him into a sense of forgetfulness. But then the sorcerer had brought him crashing back to reality with the undeniable truth. Magic was outlawed and punishable by death. And Merlin had magic. Two simple facts he could not get away from, though he had no greater wish than for Merlin to jump out of bed, crying "Ha ha! Fooled you!" and for him to not possess the power to turn the ceiling into a pile of rubble and command dragons to do his bidding.

Arthur felt the overwhelming need to get out of there; to run away and hide from the feeling of being trapped by circumstances over which he had no control. Of having the course of his life directed for him against his will and better judgement. Everything about this seemed so wrong - so unfair – and he could feel the anger rising in his blood, getting ready to explode; and he had no wish to do that at Merlin's expense. The man was doing a good enough job of punishing himself without Arthur exacerbating matters.

Arthur stopped, facing away from the bed; his arms folded and fists contained in his armpits; stopping them from smashing two holes in the wall as they were itching to do. He was vaguely aware of his whole body shaking slightly, with the effort of bringing his volatile emotions under control. He stood there for several minutes, staring at the thin cracks in the discoloured plaster, until a desperately pleading voice cut through his reverie, like a blood-slicked blade; ripping into his abdomen and then twisting for the final coup de grace.

"Please, my Lord, you must do it." Merlin sounded so adamant and earnest. But for once the title made Arthur recoil; his last meal curdling in his stomach. In that moment, he wished for the address to be for anyone but him, because – not for the first time – it represented a power he was in no mood to wield. The fact that Merlin (who from the minute they had met, had thrown titles around like a juggler did their balls) had been the one to utter it, made it a hundred times more repulsive to Arthur's ears.

For the length of several heart beats, he had the rash compulsion to slap the young man across the cheek and demand he take the words back. But with a twitch of his fingers, and a heavy exhalation through flared nostrils, he managed to force the impulse back down to the bowels of his inner darkness. He would _not_ allow himself to be manipulated. He was a Pendragon, and therefore would move, not be moved; and only when _he_ deemed it necessary.

Deliberately squeezing the anxiety from his features, and replacing it with a blank, stony facade, the King slowly spun on his heel; his arms held like steel anchors at his sides.

"No, Merlin, I must do no such thing. I don't believe in curses or fate, and unlike you, I will not give up! I make my own destiny; I do not have it handed down to me and then wallow in my own putrefaction when I don't like what I've been given." Arthur winced inwardly at the acidity of his snipe, and made a conscious effort to cool his boiling temper before carrying on in a marginally calmer tone. "We _will_ sort this out, Merlin, but not through death. There has been enough of that to drive anyone half-crazy."

Arthur bit his tongue and frowned at his inability to choose words on the spur-of-the-moment, as he looked to the man on the bed for his reaction to them. Merlin looked crestfallen, as he stared down at the limp hands in his lap; his sleeves rucked up enough for a glint of silver to wink at him. A look Arthur could not fathom swept across the younger man's face. If it had lingered longer, and if Arthur had believed him capable, he would have called it 'deviousness'. But as it left the pale features before the King could really acknowledge what he had seen, he dismissed it as a trick of the light.

Frown deepening, Arthur crossed his arms and inclined his head sternly at the rebellious patient. "Now, you will stay here and you _will_ eat _and_ take your medicine and you _will_ get better. Or I will see to it personally if you don't."

For a moment, Merlin looked suitably chastised, but then his expression changed, and Arthur's guard immediately came up. The smile tugging at the servant's lips was not unwelcome; indeed under normal circumstances, Arthur would have rejoiced at the hint that Merlin was making a slow return to his usual, easy-going self. It was the fact that he could see through the smile to the pain that lay behind it that made his heart sink. And Merlin's eyes appeared empty, as if they had not quite caught on to what his mouth had planned.

The young man lifted his arms, allowing the sleeves to fall back further and display the manacles to the man who had placed them there. "Well, if I'm no longer under arrest, could I at least get rid of these?"

Arthur contemplated the silver bands, and then his servant's suspicious bearing for a moment, before his own face darkened and he shook his head. "No, Merlin. I'm sorry but I still don't trust you." Merlin's brow furrowed and then softened as his mouth quirked into a somewhat victorious smile. It disturbed Arthur enough for him to hastily add, "Not with _my_ life, Merlin, but with _yours_. I know you would do nothing to harm me or anyone else. But I have no guarantee that the same can be said for yourself. So for now, those will remain, and so will a guard."

The despair that washed over Merlin's face, as he turned it away from his master to the rumpled blankets around him made Arthur's chest feel like a war hammer had crashed through it, and he turned towards the door; unable to bear his friend's pain or have him be a witness to his own.

The sound of the outer door opening and closing in the main room, and the clink of a bottle-filled bag being laid upon a wooden surface, drew the King out of his soul-battering slump. Glancing back over his shoulder, but not really looking at the bed's occupant, he mumbled, "I'd...err...better go. Lots of...um...King things to do."

On a semi-conscious level, he wondered at his uncharacteristic embarrassment and need to excuse himself, when he could do whatever he damned well pleased. But before he could allow the blush that was beginning to burn his cheeks to be registered by the silent man on the bed, he grappled with the door's handle and, tightening his jaw in preparation for an unhindered exit past the man's returned – and probably fairly curious - guardian, he let himself out.


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: *Shuffles through the door looking sheepish* Erm, hi. So, that little break took longer than I expected. I won't bore you with the details of why it has taken me so long to update, but I am sorry to have kept you waiting. I'll try not to take so long next time.  
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**Anyway, this chapter's kind of a setting of the stage for the next chapter...so not a lot of action, but necessary for what is to come.  
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**Thank you again to everyone who has followed, favourited and reviewed - your words of advice and encouragement mean the world to me (even if I can't reply personally, because you signed in as a guest).  
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**Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin.  
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**Chapter 21**

"...well, you can imagine, Megan went ballistic when she was told she had to arrange for meals for another twenty people in the party, when she'd already made all her lists and put her orders in for the few days that the Prince will be here. And then the seating arrangement for the feast will have to be redone. Henry was irritable all yesterday afternoon when he heard that, and snapped at Juliana - she's the new serving girl who started last month - just for putting the tablecloths away in the wrong cabinet. You'd think they've never had to deal with last minute changes for a royal visit before, the way everyone's carrying on, when..."

Merlin tuned out the sound of Gwen's speech again. He'd lost count of the number of times he'd done that since her visit began, close to an hour ago, and had to concentrate hard to suppress the heavy sigh of ennui that was clawing at his throat for a not very subtle release. Normally, Gwen's soft tones and frequent hand or arm squeezes would be a source of comfort for Merlin, when he was feeling on the darker side of 'down', and having lived in the palace from her mid-teens, she was an excellent authority on gossip about the staff and nobles. But in the past few days, Merlin was finding it harder and harder to stay relaxed and not give in to the annoyance her visits sparked.

Perhaps it was her obviously false cheeriness he found so irritating. Or maybe it was the fact that she was blatantly ignoring the very glaring hints he was dropping - from his point of view, at least - that he'd really had enough of the meaningless small talk, and would rather she just went back to doing whatever it was she had been doing before she decided to interrupt his solitude again.

The problem was that even if Gwen did leave, he wouldn't be allowed to spend time in his own company for long. Merlin had been 'chatted to' by a number of people over the last week, since his health had improved enough to allow it. From Simon, the stable boy he often used to talk to (while having a five-minute breather during an arduous manure-clearing session of the royal mounts); to Enid, the head-seamstress, who had many times helped Merlin by mending Arthur's ripped shirts (after a vigorous bout of training, or when the King was being especially careless about removing his undershirt - that was _"not getting a bit too tight. Shut-up, _Mer_lin!")_.

Then of course there were the knights, or 'babysitters', as Merlin tended to view them, disdainfully. Now that he was spending most of his daylight hours reading or performing simple tasks for Gaius, rather than sleeping, most of the knights would while away their shift of 'Merlin-sitting' with a steady stream of inane chat. Some more than others. While Percival's banter was still limited to the odd sentence of no more than ten words a piece (and only when the silence stretched on for more than half an hour), Gwaine could talk a deaf man into insanity, even if the person he was talking to constantly tutted and sent him dirty looks, as he tried to bury his nose further into a very boring tome on the thirty uses of Wormwood.

Merlin had a strong suspicion that all this sudden interest in keeping him entertained and preventing him from being left for too long by himself stemmed from Gaius' 'enlightened' assumption that it would lift his spirits. His guardian too seemed to be making an especial effort to engage the warlock in conversation, whenever his duties allowed. And each day, he would give him a long list of chores (that could be completed within the confines of their quarters) - in the hope that he would succeed in distracting him from whatever thoughts were responsible for the permanent downcast of his ward's mouth and eyes. Though why Gaius wanted to alphabetise all his books, when neither of them was much inclined to replace a book on anywhere but the nearest flat surface, he couldn't fathom. And if he had to prize another leech from the tips of his ears in the next month, he would find a way to slip them into Gwaine's clothing, and see which lasted longest when the knight went for his nightly top-up of alcoholic beverages; Gwaine or his blood-sucking stowaways.

Needless to say, the old man's efforts were not having a great effect, and not even the added guilt of seeing the man's frequent, worried glances in his direction, and heavy bags from lack of sleep around his eyes, were enough to convince Merlin to respond in even a slightly more upbeat fashion. The knights and Gwen too - when they were not engaged in their never-ending string of mundane nothings they felt sure he would be interested to hear - would often send him sidelong, troubled looks. Did they think him so imperceptive he didn't notice their scrutiny, soft sighs and slight head shakes, as they finished their shifts and turned to leave? Certainly no-one so far had confronted him on his behaviour and sour demeanour; as if to do so would be to acknowledge he was anything but the cheerful soul they pretended he still could be.

At least no-one had brought up the subject of his magic; though whether that was because it was another topic of anathema or because Arthur had still not made them aware of its existence, he was not sure. And Merlin was keen to keep it that way, so he was very much disinclined to ask whether anything had been mentioned in relation to the night Arthur turned everything on its head by following him. The person most affected by and prejudiced to his magic knew of it, and that was quite enough for Merlin to be dealing with. Especially since he remained uncertain of Arthur's opinion on the matter. Yes, the King had not killed him, nor returned him to the dungeon, but neither had he visited him again to pass judgement, ask questions or voice his concerns. The impression the King had given in their last talk - mostly via facial reactions, since very few of the words spoken had been his - was that the truths he had learned, from his former servant and perhaps-never friend, caused him great pain and, at times, revulsion.

Was that why he had stayed away and sent others in his place to watch the sorcerer? Because he could not bear to look on the man who had been such a disappointment to him; who had lied almost every moment they had been together. Who could only tell the truth if it was dragged out of him when he was at his most vulnerable. Was that the real reason why he kept Merlin's magic chained; a prisoner inside its host?

Merlin absentmindedly rubbed his left wrist and then froze; his face turned to stone as it was about to register a wince at the now familiar sting his calloused finger pads caused. It could be the metal the manacles were made from, or the magic they were imbued with, but something was making the surrounding skin feel like it crawled with every type of blood-sucking insect under the sun, and he had scratched and scratched until his flesh was raw. Though it thankfully didn't happen too often, he'd had his fair share of experience of being clapped in irons, yet he couldn't remember his skin being as irritated by the metal as they were now. Rubbed, yes, to the point of losing a couple of layers of skin, but not like his wrists were wrapped in stinging nettles.

Whatever the cause, Merlin couldn't be more grateful than now for the overly long cuffs on his tunics, and their ability to prevent unwanted questions about what appeared to be the only form of self-harm left open to him, when all other avenues had been closed. And even if he was to truthfully deny that that had been his intent, he could not bear to see pity replace the suspicion in their eyes, when they found out why he had broken his own skin enough to make it bleed in places. He didn't deserve pity; only their contempt. But that was the one thing everyone - including the son of Uther the magic-quencher - seemed reluctant to give. Even the excuse Arthur had given for sealing the bands on his arms had not been based on _his_ hatred for him, but for Merlin's hatred for himself.

He had tried to get them off, but his efforts at lockpicking had met with as little success as his frantic - and in the beginning, frequent - tugging. And that was to say nothing of the fruitlessness of his striving to remove them with magic. The spells he had so far tried on the manacles were as ineffectual as his other endeavours to draw on his power; even for something as simple as snuffing out the candle on his bedside table, before another impotent bid to get some sleep.

To top it all, every time he had dug down, into what had once seemed an endless supply of the warm presence that was his magic, it had brought pain. The emptiness had lashed back at his effort ten-fold, like a frightened beast; forced into a corner and fighting to escape the torture its enemy wrought. Unwilling to explain his stupidity to an already distraught guardian, Merlin had simply added another lie to the never-ending string, by explaining the shriek of agony (that had burst out of his room and snagged the physician in) as merely the result of a stubbed toe. His red face and streaming eyes could just as easily have fitted the hastily invented act of clumsiness, and after a loud tut and head-shake, his mentor had left his ward's bedroom. The warlock's guilt grew at another falsehood so easily believed.

It had taken a great deal of effort to go against what came as naturally to him as breathing, but eventually he had become accustomed to suppressing the unconscious urges to draw on his magic. It felt like being cut off from his soul, but he would endure. He had acclimatised himself in recent times to spurning pain, and it was not as if he had any choice in the matter. Even the innocence of a butter knife had been denied him, along with pieces of rope longer than the length of his arm, and all ingredients in the physician's stores that could induce anything worse than an hour's worth of bellyache. And with his magic set like a mousetrap - waiting to punish him for trying to reach it - he would have no further chances to sneak past his far more attentive and emotionally-involved guards than the previous ones had been. Not that he truly wanted to get any of the knights in trouble for sleeping on duty, but he was getting increasingly desperate to rid himself of the oppressive feeling of having no control over his present, never mind his future.

Forcing himself to not react to the call his wrists made to his fingernails, Merlin moved a hand up to rub at his right-temple, and the headache that throbbed there. In the beginning, he had assumed that it had been the result of his fever and sleep-deprived stay in the dungeon. But while the fog of his illness had cleared as his temperature fell, the pain in his head only seemed to get worse. Though Merlin had no desire to draw attention to the symptom, he had secretly hoped that the remedies his guardian continued to give him (until he was satisfied his lungs were free of their congestion) would have some effect on his head. The drumming _had_ dulled to a more bearable patter at first, but had then returned to its previous tempo and strength; accompanied this time with the wonderful addition of nausea, that did nothing to improve his mood.

If anything, it made him want to scream and shout things like...

"Oh please will you just SHUT UP!"

Merlin sucked in a sharp breath through his nose, and held it there, like it was the last bit of air in a suddenly small room. _Oh Gods, did I actually say that aloud?_ He unclenched white-knuckled fists, and slowly dragged open clam-tight eyelids to view the person sitting opposite him. Gwen stared back; eyes and mouth wide and unmoving. All hope that the voice he had heard had been an internal shout of frustration quickly evaporated, leaving a sour sensation in his stomach and throat that only served to heighten the sick feeling already coiling and spasming there.

Merlin swallowed and blinked hard, feeling his cheeks flush hotly as he struggled to slow his rapid pulse. "I...I...Gwen...I'm-"

His friend held up her hand, which instantly quelled his rough and unused-to-use voice. A small smile twitched onto her lips, that Merlin knew was as forced as the dismissive tone she spoke in next, as both drove away the look of hurt that had momentarily flitted across her face. "It's okay, Merlin, there's no need to apologise. I have been burning your ears off for quite a while now, haven't I."

A grunt - that sounded suspiciously like a suppressed chuckle - emitted from the other side of the room. Gwen looked back over her shoulder to meet the eyes of the otherwise silent (and therefore easily-forgotten) listener, before Percival swiftly looked away. He suddenly found the book, open on the table in front of him, far more interesting than he had done for the past hour.

Gwen turned back to find Merlin's blanched face creased by a grimace of pain, which she interpreted as embarrassment, and lifted a hand to awkwardly pat his arm.

Merlin drew in a shuddering breath and looked up to meet Gwen's steady but sympathetic gaze, before quickly looking down at the hands churning in his lap. "Gwen, I...sorry, I don't know what I was-"

Gwen gave his arm a small squeeze and shook her head. "No, Merlin, it's fine. I understand this situation has all been very...distressing for you. And it can't be easy being cooped up in here for so long." Her eyes drifted over the messy work surfaces and general clutter that could make the room look claustrophobic to even a casual visitor, never mind someone held prisoner for as long as Merlin had been. She looked back at Merlin's pinched face; taking in his pasty complexion with a frown. "I could try having a word with Arthur, see if maybe he'll let you come back to work, or at least go for a walk and get some fresh air?"

Merlin looked up at her words, a spark of hope in his eyes that had been missing for so long, it made Gwen's heart leap in her chest. But then, like the sun being engulfed by a cloud, after a brief break on an otherwise overcast day, the spark dimmed and went out. Merlin dropped his gaze again to the book on the table, mumbling, "Don't worry, Gwen, I'm sure the King has too much on his mind at the moment to be bothered about some stupid servant feeling sorry for himself."

Gwen's frown deepened at the bitter tone, and she gave his arm a small shake, drawing his attention away from his book to her stern eyes. "Don't, Merlin. Don't you _ever_ say that about yourself again. You are _not_ stupid and you are _not_ just a servant to Arthur. Surely you must know by now that you are his friend." At this, Merlin snorted and looked away from Gwen's vehement glare, but she angled her head to snag his attention again. "And as your friend, he cares about you. Isn't that right, Percival?" She swivelled in her seat to burn her eyes into the knight's own wide ones, daring him to deny or ignore her plea for support.

Merlin flickered his gaze at the bulky man, who looked like he had been caught stealing pies from the kitchen again, as he slowly nodded and then followed up the head movement with a quiet, "Of course, my lady."

Merlin's first impulse was to snigger at the knight's conspicuous discomfort at being dragged into the discussion and forced to champion something his King would undoubtedly refute. His second, was to thrust his sore wrists in her face, and growl out that his so-called 'friend' had a funny way of showing his 'care'. But he couldn't be bothered. So few things in his life now sprung enough interest for him to make the effort to find joy in them, or to fight back.

Somewhere deep inside, he knew he was being illogical; that he should be celebrating the fact that Arthur knew. Arthur knew and he was not dead. Yet. So he had a chance to prove that magic was not evil, that it - he - could be used for good. But the louder voice in his inner chorus still blasted away the meeker ones. What for? Too many times in the past he had foolishly held this goal in mind, and endeavoured to achieve it, against all odds and advice, only for things to go wrong. Why would this occasion be any different? He knew that he hadn't always been this negative, but it now coveted his every thought; making more sense than whatever else he tried to convince himself was true.

Logic be damned! Gut feel he could trust, and his gut told him to do nothing; to sit there and accept the fact that no good would ever come from his misguided meddling in the world.

Darkness fell over Merlin, and with a small gasp, he pulled himself out of his mud-thickened thoughts to see who was creating the shadow that pooled around him. Gwen looked down from where she stood beside his chair, her dark eyes swirling with sympathy, and Merlin had to bite the inside of his cheek hard to stop himself from shouting at her to stop, leave him be and go annoy someone else. He couldn't stop himself though from tensing when Gwen leaned forwards and wrapped her arms round him. By the time he had managed to force himself to relax his tight posture enough not to offend, she had released him; a long sigh escaping her pursed lips.

"Don't give in to despair, Merlin," she said, her words gentle, yet laced with the same worry her face bore. "You have so many people who care about you, and who just want to see you happy again." With one last and soon-aborted effort at a smile, Gwen spun round and made for the door. She paused on the threshold; her hand still clasping the handle as she looked over her shoulder at the slumped figure of her friend and said, "I'll come by tomorrow when I get a break, and see how you're doing, okay?"

She held her stance long enough for an acknowledgement of her promise, and had to make do with the almost imperceptible nod from the dark-haired head. Gwen released another pained sigh, her glare still riveted to Merlin's inattentive pose, before she added, in the voice of a nursemaid scolding her juvenile charge, "And if you don't tell Gaius about your headaches and sore wrists, then I will."

All that Merlin's shocked stare met was the back of the door; closing with a soft click.

* * *

Gwen glanced over at the closed doors to the council chambers again, and stared at them for a full minute, before giving up on the idea that they would do as she silently pleaded and open. She turned back to look out of the window she hovered by. The dull drizzle that had persisted for most of the day had finally sent most of the market stallholders packing their wares away, in light of the diminished numbers of customers, and the maid could just make out the last of them saying their farewells, before pushing their carts over the cobbled surface of the main square as they headed for home. The light too was fading; turning the dove grey sky to a slate-coloured one. Within the grounds of the castle, she saw the odd servant dash from one covered walkway to another, hurrying to finish last minute chores or fetch the evening meal for whoever paid their wage.

Gwen smiled at the thought of her brother, and the other knights of their close-knit group, heading out for their habitual end of the day tavern trip, after a gruelling training session or patrol. Leon would most likely have lead them, with Arthur occupied for the majority of the day in the council meeting she was still waiting on to finish; discussing the terms of the treaty he would be presenting to Prince Anlawd in two days' time. Thoughts of her friends lead Gwen back to the one that had been a permanent resident of her mind for the past few weeks, and who still disturbed her inner peace, despite the attempts of all his acquaintances to find a remedy for his sadness. With Arthur either holed up in his chambers - granting no-one but his manservant leave to enter - or tied up in meetings and occasional training bouts, Gwen had not had the chance to have more than the briefest of discussions with him. And even then, the King seemed determined to divert their scant exchanges away from the subject of Merlin.

Not this time, though. Gwen was adamant that she would not accept excuses of tardiness to another appointment (with _George_ on the case, this was highly unlikely anyway), or have her questions sidetracked and ignored for other topics besides the one she intended to discuss. And so, though she knew her time and skills were needed elsewhere, and she may have to spend a while appeasing the house mistress for shirking her duties, Gwen had stood in the corridor outside the council chambers for the better part of the last hour; hoping that any minute the heavy doors would open to discharge more than a servant or two, as they left to refill empty water pitchers and return candle-lighting equipment to the stores. So far, all that she had received for her trouble were small nods of acknowledgement and the odd sympathetic smile from the two guards stood either side of the door, in recognition for her status as the King's unofficial significant other. Gwen had tried to return their smiles, but was too distracted by the battle taking place inside her head; with one side telling her that this was a waste of time, as Arthur would likely not answer her questions, while the other side was giving her a metaphorical slap on the wrists for forgetting that this was for Merlin, and any time spent trying to help him was time well spent.

Five minutes and two more heavy sighs later, and the sound of the doors cracking open from the inside, followed by the soft footsteps of richly-shod feet, signalled Gwen's reward for her patience. She whirled around to watch the mostly greying and balding heads of the council pass her, on their way down the corridor. Some - like Sir Geoffrey - echoed the guards in their discreet but benevolent greeting of the maid; others were openly disapproving, and if Gwen had been paying more attention, she would have heard the tuts and seen the critical glares. As it was, she had eyes and ears only for the youngest though hierarchically most senior member of the council, and therefore allowed the rest to flow past her like flotsam on a stormy tide.

Eventually, a crowned, blond head appeared, followed closely by a bare, brown-haired one, as Arthur and George left the chambers. Out of the corner of her eye, Gwen saw the dark presence of her lover's Uncle, hovering a few steps behind his nephew's temporary manservant, like a shadow in a dirty alleyway, and knew that he was watching her as she strode forwards to intercept the King. But as with every other time she was forced to endure the lord's presence, she suppressed the shudder he induced, and did her best to ignore his sour, calculating surveillance.

"Arthur," she called, as he was about to turn in the direction of his own chambers, and received a surprised but genuine smile from the King; obviously too distracted to have noticed her as she'd waited in the background.

"Guinevere," he replied, and then stayed the hand he had started to raise to collect her own, on regarding the strength of purpose in her tone, frown and posture.

Gwen knew, by the crease that marred his forehead and the twitch to the corner of his mouth, that he had made an educated guess as to the reason for her loitering, and therefore she hastily threw in her request, before he could think up yet another justification for being elsewhere. "I need to speak with you, please, my Lord," she said, catching his eye and holding his blue with her brown under a steely resolve.

Arthur pulled the crown from his head and broke contact with her eyes to turn round and thrust the headpiece into George's immediately receptive hands, before clearing his throat noisily and turning back to make a point of not meeting her gaze again.

"I'm sorry, Guinevere, but I have some urgent paperwork that needs attending to in my chambers," he said, "Perhaps another time," and made to carry on walking in the direction he had been heading in, before Gwen's interruption.

Gwen almost snorted, in a very Merlin-esque gesture of derision, at Arthur's poor attempt at an evasion, and took a bold step forwards to slide a hand under his elbow; linking their arms in a move that clearly stated that she would not be so easily dismissed. "Then I shall accompany you, my Lord," she said, throwing him a sweet smile; knowing that he was too much of a gentleman to publicly humiliate her by walking away alone.

It was therefore with a tight smile and a "Very well then, my lady" that Arthur guided her down the hallway; George pursuing them at a suitable distance for etiquette to be appeased. Though she was having to bite her tongue to stop herself from beginning her line of enquiry during their journey, Gwen was wise enough in the ways of gossiping servants to know that it would be best to wait until the relative safety of Arthur's quarters.

She also couldn't shake from her mind the peripheral view she'd had of Lord Agravaine's covert signs of interest in their tête-à-tête, before she had managed to snag his nephew away, and a spark of intuition told her that what she had to discuss should not be divulged within the vicinity of the advisor. Which in turn brought forth a very recent memory of Merlin, squatting on the floor of the chambers he shared with Gaius, stating his belief that Agravaine had had a hand in his guardian's disappearance. Whilst this theory had apparently been disproved, given that the man had aided Merlin and Gwaine in Gaius' rescue, Gwen could not bring herself to trust him to the same depth that Arthur did. There was just something about the way he looked at her and Arthur together, as well as the fact that he questioned Arthur's involvement in general with those not of noble birth. And though she had no proof to back her argument, she couldn't dismiss the suspicion that Agravaine had been a powerful influence on Arthur's decision to end their relationship all those months ago; deeming it 'inappropriate'.

Thankfully, the King had come to his senses. Gwen had a hunch that this was due, in no small part, to Merlin's usual interrogations of the frankly ridiculous choices Arthur sometimes made, in his aim to be the King he thought everyone wanted him to be, instead of the one she knew he could be, if he only trusted his heart. The least she could do, therefore, was to return the favour, and question the recent decisions Arthur had made with regards to their younger friend. Because it burned a hole right through her chest to see the pain Merlin didn't try very hard to hide behind false smiles and assurances anymore.

George had somehow managed to make his way ahead of them, and as their uncomfortably silent ambulation through the corridors came to an end, the subservient man opened the door to the King's chambers; bowing low until they had entered the room. Gwen looked sidelong at Arthur and he met her gaze; rolling his eyes in unison with hers, and she only just stopped herself from guffawing loudly at the bootlicker's behaviour.

Watching her lover, as he removed his jacket and cast it idly aside to land mostly on the floor (apart from a sleeve that got snagged on the arm of a chair), Gwen saw sadness cloud his eyes, when George darted forwards and immediately picked it up; walking over to the wardrobe to hang it up. Merlin would have just ignored it; viewing tidying his friend's chambers much lower down on the list of priorities than relieving his tension with a teasing comment about his 'prattish' behaviour. Funny how words such as that had been around for centuries, but only since Merlin had come to Camelot had they somehow slipped into their everyday vocabulary. Maybe, at last, for all that he complained about how awful a servant he was, and threatened to replace him, the prat was beginning to understand the real service Merlin provided: friendship. And Merlin's was the sort that could not easily be replaced.

Arthur had walked through to the inner chamber of his room, and sat down at the desk, which Gwen could see now was indeed piled high with various scrolls and pages for his information or approval. George, meanwhile, had just finished reverently placing the crown - Arthur had spared no time in removing, when he wasn't required to wear it - on its stand, before he whipped a cloth from his rear trouser pocket and proceeded to polish it.

Rolling her eyes again, and wondering if the servant was remotely aware that his mannerisms were far funnier to watch than his jokes were to hear, Gwen went to stand at the archway Arthur had passed through, and said, "Sire, may I speak to you in private?"

Arthur tilted his eyes up from the page he had been reading to look at her with...what was that? Anger? Apprehension? Caginess? When he saw her determination, he looked down at his document again and sighed, before calling out, "George, will you excuse us, please?"

Only a second later, the man was standing beside her - how he managed to move so silently and quickly was beyond even a servant of Gwen's experience - tucking the polishing cloth back in his pocket. George bowed low to the inattentive King and said obsequiously, "As you wish, your Majesty. I will fetch you your supper," before smartly marching out the door.

Gwen waited a moment after the soft click of the door shutting before she turned back to see that Arthur had returned to pretending to read through his paperwork. She sighed exasperatedly before saying, "Arthur -"

"Gwen," he cut in, still not looking up, "I know what you're here to talk about, and it..it's complicated."

The maid frowned. "What is?"

"The situation."

"Which one?"

Arthur looked up; his forehead as creased in confusion as hers. "You _were_ here to talk about me and Merlin, weren't you?"

"No, I mean yes, I mean..." Gwen clenched her hands into fists and shook her head, as if by doing so she could shake some sense into their conversation. At the back of her mind she knew that she would not have long to get what she wanted to say off her chest; with George's efficiency and Arthur's knack for being saved from confrontations by serendipitous interruptions from his knights or uncle. "Arthur, would you please just let me speak?"

At the overt annoyance in her tone, Arthur gave her a sheepish half smile and said, "Sorry, your turn."

Gwen returned his smile with a slightly anxious, but nevertheless grateful one of her own. Yet out of habit, she couldn't help stalling while she gathered her courage; fiddling with a loose thread in the embroidery of her sleeve, and making a mental note to mend it when she got home. Gwen knew there had to be a reason why the subject she was about to broach was a taboo one with the King, and judging by the answers she had received - when she'd questioned the knights who'd guarded Merlin - she was the first to actually conquer their fear of angering Arthur by forcing him to face it.

Most of them hadn't the faintest idea why they were still keeping Merlin in his room, why he had spent a few days in the dungeon, why he wore the strange silver bands on his wrists, and why Arthur was refraining from visiting his erstwhile first choice for companionship. The only exception was Gwaine, whose repeated answer to her enquiries was "Ask the Princess", before sauntering off with a dark and unreadable expression on his face that practically screamed his disapproval of Arthur's actions. So whatever she said would probably result in the King either hiding the truth or revealing a new one about her friend she wasn't sure she was ready to hear.

"Guinevere?"

Arthur's prompt made her gasp slightly and blush, before she blurted out, "What did Merlin do?"

Arthur looked at her quizzically. "I don't follow you."

Gwen's sigh was loud and exasperated, like she had been waiting too long for a young child to admit to stealing a honey cake, and just wanted their confession out the way, so that they could proceed with the reprimands. "Arthur, Merlin ran away from the castle, you bring him back - unconscious - and throw him in the dungeons, then only let him out when he becomes ill, and confine him to his quarters. And no-one knows why. Merlin must have done something to anger you, or is there another reason why you won't go and see him, won't let Gwaine talk about it, and have been avoiding me the last few days?"

The King's mouth, which had hung open in shock at her astuteness, slowly closed, and his skin darkened to the colour of his ceremonial cape. Gwen couldn't help feeling the slightest bit vindicated by this.

"You say it's complicated," Gwen continued, when it became apparent that Arthur was unable or unwilling to find a reply to her accusations, "So why don't you try explaining it to me? And you can start with why Merlin has metal cuffs locked on his wrists."

At the mention of the manacles, Arthur looked away, the bloom in his cheeks darkening another shade. He fidgeted with a piece of parchment on his desk; pulling at the corners to make the sheet lie flatter.

"They're for his protection," he mumbled, keeping his eyes averted from her analysing glare.

"Protection? In what way?"

"They...stop him from...causing himself harm," he replied haltingly, and Gwen had the strange impression that there was more to it than that; that Arthur was not being entirely honest with her.

Ordinarily, she would have simply accepted the reply and moved on, but something about the whole situation - with people she would normally trust seeking to hide the truth to her face - was beginning to irritate her. To the point that she could no longer make allowances for their unwillingness to share or difficulty in putting thoughts into words. She was neither judgemental nor a simpleton, and resented the fact that they believed her incapable of understanding or caring about whatever it was that they wouldn't reveal.

"How? How do they stop him from harming himself?"

"It's comp-" at the hard glare from Gwen, Arthur cut himself off, and he let out a relenting sigh. "Please, Gwen, you just have to trust me on this, when I say that is what they do."

Gwen, however, was not in a trusting mood. "But they're not even chained together or tied to anything - not that I want you to do that to Merlin - but I don't see how they can do what you say they do. Ordinary manacles..." Gwen's thought processes had leapt a sentence or two ahead of her mouth, and brought it grinding to a halt. Arthur watched her as she frowned slightly, her eyes for a moment focused on nothing in particular, before they trailed back to his face. "But they're not ordinary manacles, are they? You're not..are they enchanted, Arthur?"

Unable to deny further, when confronted by a guess that was too close to the truth, Arthur said, "Yes," but then clamped his mouth shut, as if afraid that information he would regret divulging might spill out.

_Why is he being so secretive?_ she wondered, frustratedly. But then the reality of what Arthur had just admitted to sunk in, and she began to wonder if he really knew what he was doing, using something with magical properties on their friend, even if the King was trying to prevent a greater crime from taking place. They hadn't exactly had very good experiences in the past with magical artefacts, and there had to be a reason why Uther had kept any he found locked away in the vaults.

For one, there was the crystal, which was stolen by sorcerers, and even though it had been recovered, it was strange how not long after that, things started going wrong. First, Morgana and Uther had had a terrible argument about something; worse than their usual disagreements. Then they had been attacked by a strange illness that put everyone to sleep, and when they awoke, Morgana had been taken by Morgause. The sorceress had spent a year corrupting her sister's mind, but in the meantime the dragon, which had been chained for more than two decades beneath the city, had somehow escaped and nearly laid everything to waste.

Then there was the stone that the sorcerer Tauren had used to perform sorcery, which her father had become involved with, and which ultimately resulted in his death. Not to mention the poultice that had mysteriously appeared under her father's pillow when he was dying from a magic-induced plague. The poultice may have cured her father, but it had also been responsible for nearly bringing about her own execution. If it wasn't for evidence that had been found of the true sorcerer's hand in the debacle, Gwen would not be standing there; pondering whether items with magical properties were best left undisturbed. Arthur, it seemed, was either not so distrustful, or was too concerned with the consequences of _not_ using these articles to prevent him from taking advantage of the fact that - through dint of his father's obsession - he owned so many.

"But how can you be sure they're safe?" she said, taking a step towards him; her hands clenching and twisting together in tune to her stomach's movements. Arthur raised his eyebrows at her, and she hastened to explain her fears, before he came out with a condescending remark in defence of his bravado when facing threats of a magical nature. "Merlin has been...out of sorts in the last few days, and I think he's suffering from headaches."

Arthur's brow was momentarily creased by lines of concern, which warmed her heart a little, though she would have been happier if he admitted more openly to his fondness and worry for their friend. But all too soon, the lines were smoothed by his desire to soothe and dismiss her fears.

"Gwen, I'm sure it's perfectly normal. He's still recovering from two near escapes from death, and he's not been himself for some time now. So -"

"Two?" Gwen broke in, shock at the news chilling the anger - that had been growing at Arthur's barren justifications - in a heartbeat.

Arthur grimaced, and let out a long sigh; dropping the quill he had been rolling between his thumb and forefinger, before he leaned back in the chair.

"The night Gwaine and I brought Merlin back, he had run off into the forest with a bottle of Hemlock: poison. I only just managed to stop him from drinking it, and I...I panicked. I had just seen a...it was a bit of a shock. So I did the only thing I could think of at the time, to prevent him from doing it again."

Gwen's face quickly drained of colour with her dismay that Merlin had tried to take his own life a second time, so soon after the first attempt. She didn't know how he'd managed it, but her relief for Arthur's intervention increased tenfold, and went some way towards calming her pulse, which had begun to beat uncomfortably fast at the frightening news. It put a whole new perspective on Arthur's motivations for placing Merlin in the dungeons, and keeping him under a close watch, and she wasn't entirely sure that in a similar state of panic, she might not have taken actions equally as drastic.

Only, something didn't feel quite right. It might be to do with the guilt that had flashed across Arthur's features, when Gwen had mentioned the manacles, and her fear of their effect on Merlin's health. Or perhaps it was the fact that the only other person who had been present on the night in question was forbidden from discussing what had occurred between the three participants. Of course, the reason for that could be to spare Merlin the humiliation of others knowing that he had tried and failed to poison himself, but Gwen had her doubts. How exactly would it be an aid in reassuring the young man that he had friends who loved and would miss him, if they were unaware of what he'd been prevented from doing? Something had to be done to resolve the situation, and soon.

Still, there was no reason to resort to magic to avoid a recurrence, was there? What if the magic in the manacles - and Gwen couldn't help feeling frustrated that Arthur refused to explain to her exactly what it was they did - somehow exacerbated the problem? They may _appear_ to work as a short-term solution - as far as she knew, Merlin had not done anything to harm himself since he had returned to Gaius' chambers - but what were the long-term effects of wearing such devices? No, there had to be a more conventional way of reaching Merlin. But what more could they do to make him believe that they all cared?

Gwen was just revisiting the internal debate over whether writing to Hunith would do more harm than good (considering the fact that when she learned of all Merlin had done to himself, her resultant distress could send Merlin irretrievably into his pit of darkness with guilt), when her train of thought was interrupted by the sound of the door to the King's chambers opening. She glanced over at Arthur, and saw a strange mix of irritation and relief at the intrusion in his eyes. Gwen cursed the servant's efficiency and listened to the sound of a metal tray being placed 'just so' on the table in the outer chamber, followed by the gentle clinks of cutlery and plates being positioned to George's not easily-achieved satisfaction. Gwen was poignantly reminded of the countless occasions when she had witnessed Merlin's version of a delivered meal. She knew whose treatment the table probably preferred - the current deliverer being a lot less fond of slamming, crashing, dropping and spilling - but it was clear by the King's wistful expression that he would tell the table where it could shove its choice of servant and his unrelenting polishing cloths.

"I will leave you to your reports, then, Sire," Gwen said, and turned to leave, but was stopped by the King's voice, calling her name.

"I'll speak to Gaius about the...items. And Merlin." He spared a glance at the archway behind her, but if George was listening, he was being more discreet about it than his predecessor would have been, so Arthur moved his eyes back to see Gwen's, full of pride and gratitude. He returned her small smile. "And I will see about allowing Merlin to return to his duties, once this treaty is out of the way." At Gwen's disappointed frown, he continued. "It wouldn't be a good idea for him to come back now, with all that's going on." He didn't add that he wouldn't relish the added stress of worrying about where his manservant was and what he was doing when he wasn't in sight, nor that said stress would more than likely cause him to snap at his friend, which would do neither party any favours in the mending of their relationship. But then, he didn't need to; Gwen knew him well enough to hear the fears left unspoken.

It was a start.

"Thank you, sire," she said, giving a small curtsey, before walking past and receiving an obeisant dip of his head from George, as he paused in adding another layer of shine to one of the King's spare helmets.

* * *

Agravaine watched as the small royal entourage disappeared down the corridor leading to the part of the castle where the King's chambers were situated; a widening smirk creasing his cheeks. Whatever it was the maid wished to discuss with his nephew, he didn't seem particularly enamoured with the idea of doing so. And any strife in the abominable relationship between the King and his serving slut - however minor - could only serve to aid his lady.

It had been a huge disappointment to Agravaine to see the rejuvenation of Arthur's unofficial courtship with the maid - despite all his Uncle's efforts to 'sour the milk' - on their return from the almost, but-not-quite battlefield with Caerleon. Two major setbacks in one fell swoop were enough to keep the Advisor from visiting his Lady for a week. Agravaine did not consider himself a coward; it took a certain kind of strength, after all, to turn his back on family and friends and stick to the vow he had made on learning of the death of his sister for so many long years. Not to mention the risks he took every time he left the city to make contact and plans with his step-niece, and sabotage the efforts of her half-brother. But even he found it an unbearable prospect sometimes to face the wrath of a High Priestess of the Old Religion. On the occasions - and there had unfortunately been many, though through no fault of his own of course - when he had bad news to deliver to the Sorceress, it was only the knowledge that she needed his eyes, ears and cunning in the castle that had enabled him to conquer his foreboding and make his delivery.

But this time, _this_ time, Agravaine felt sure that events would go as expected. Circumstances had never been more in their favour. Arthur had had a significant falling out with his servant, which had resulted in him being even more distracted and despondent than he had been following the death of his father. Even without Morgana pointing out Arthur's odd fondness for the boy, Agravaine would have to be a simpleton to not notice the high regard his nephew had for the peasant's opinion and wellbeing; however desperately he tried to hide it. And whatever the servant had been up to, the night he had been brought back unconscious to the castle, by Arthur and his hot-headed accomplice, had been the icing on the cake of Arthur's mental demise; after the peasant had tried to kill himself. If he didn't have appearances to keep up before the increasingly-concerned council members, Agravaine didn't think he would have stopped grinning once in the past week, at the thought of all that he and Morgana wished for slowly coming to fruition.

Add to that the fact that members of the council and other nobility - including a number of knights he or his spies had had the fortune to overhear - were beginning to question the ability of the King to rule, when he could be traumatised so easily by such a trivial matter, and you had the perfect setting for what he and Camelot's rightful Queen had in mind to take place.

Agravaine tore his gaze from the now-empty corridor and started in the opposite direction to the King, head held high, and stride purposeful. The well-lit and decorated corridors soon gave way to the more sparsely lit and furnished ones of the servants' quarters. The dark-clad Lord came to a stop by a door in a small alcove, and after first looking back up and down the hallway, to satisfy himself that there were indeed no signs of life within sight, he opened the door to reveal the tools of the trade of the quarters' residents. He bent forward to quickly snag the strings of the sack he had hidden behind a bundle of brooms, not long after dawn that morning, and quietly closed the door. Folding the top of the sack over to make it small enough, he tucked it under his arm and continued down the corridor.

Arriving at last at his destination, Agravaine again checked the surrounding area for possible witnesses, and finding none, he gave the door three sharp raps. He only had to wait a moment before the door was opened, and a dark eye appeared to fill the two-inch gap. Wariness in the eye retreated far enough to show his presence was accepted, and the gap widened the minimum amount to allow the noble to gain entrance, before the door was hastily closed behind him. Walking to the centre of the Spartan room, Agravaine stopped between the two beds and turned round to observe the - thankfully - only other occupant. He assumed the other servant who shared the humble room was busy serving his master, or had understandably been encouraged to spend as little of his free time in his room-mate's company as possible. As long as there would be no requirement to silence unwanted eavesdroppers, Agravaine didn't care.

Though they had met a handful of times now, to discuss the job at hand, it still took Agravaine a moment to recognise the man's features, without the black beard he'd had when they'd first made their acquaintance; in the sullen shadows of a tavern near the Escetian border. But as a freshly-shaven face would have a twofold advantage - as a disguise and so as to have the more acceptable appearance of a member of the castle's serving staff - the man had reluctantly agreed to do away with his facial hair. Not that there was much of a chance of the man being recognised by anyone who lived and worked in the castle, given his colourful history, but Agravaine had learned to be nothing if not cautious. It had de-aged the man considerably as well, and the noble couldn't help himself - the first time he had seen the man post-shave - from double-checking that he had the requisite years of experience in order to complete the task he was paying him for. To which he had received an indignant eyebrow raise and threat to have his services withdrawn.

"Seldon," Agravaine intoned, after the dark, calculating eyes had held his long enough for it to become uncomfortable.

"My Lord." The surprisingly deep-voiced reply, as usual, held a hint of disdain for Agravaine's title. And as usual, the nobleman ignored it; the man being the mere tool to his plans that he was.

Agravaine tossed the sack he held onto the bed, and after a moment or two, the other man turned and glanced down at it, before turning back, with a one-sided brow raised in question.

"Your uniform," Agravaine said, tilting his chin towards the bed.

The hard-faced man crossed his arms and glared at his employer. "The serving staff don't wear a uniform. I should know: you've had me fetching and carrying and scrubbing floors for the bloody past two weeks."

Agravaine mirrored his posture, angling his head condescendingly. "It's called blending in, and it's necessary to ensure everything goes to plan. We've already discussed this."

Seldon snorted. "Yeah, well, I didn't know I was going to be working so bloody hard. You're not paying me for this part of your so-called plan."

Agravaine's frown deepened, as he stared intensely into the other man's eyes. He could see that this was an argument he was not going to win and he couldn't risk the Sorceress' wrath by allowing this opportunity to pass, due to stinginess on his part. Still holding the man's gaze, he dug into an inner pocket of his jerkin, and pulling out a small, leather purse, he chucked it onto the bed, to land beside the sack of clothes.

"The lady will pay you the remainder _when_ you have completed the job."

Seldon leaned over to the bed and snatched up the purse, before pocketing it. Agravaine fervently hoped the rogue was appeased enough to not expect him to dip further into his personal funds.

"Which will be when?"

"The last night of the Prince's visit. A feast will be held to celebrate the signing of the treaty." Agravaine couldn't have kept the sneer from his face - at his nephew's continuing efforts to pander to the wants and needs of every petty Lord and Prince his father had blatantly ignored, in favour of the bigger players - if he'd tried. When Morgana took her rightful place on the throne, there would be no need for all these alliances with pathetically small kingdoms. Those who did not bow down in fear or awe of her power and beauty, as he did, would soon come to know the bitter taste of an angry High Priestess of the old religion; leaving a bare few survivors to warn other kingdoms of the consequences of their stupidity. Only those of equal or greater might to Camelot would gain the support of her monarch...until such time as they too could be conquered. One day soon, all of Albion would be under Queen Morgana's rule...and it was only a short step for her favourite Uncle to progress from royal advisor to consort...

"I will ensure you are on the roster to serve the royal table that night, and then you can do what you _are_ being paid to do."

Seldon gave a single, curt nod of understanding, and Agravaine turned to leave. He paused though, with his hand on the door; looking back over his shoulder at the other man. "But know that if fail, you will not receive a penny, and the Lady Morgana will be most displeased. That is something she will not allow you to live to regret."

The flash of fear that crossed the man's usually impassive features gave Agravaine another burst of satisfaction. The smile on his own face only grew, as he softly closed the door behind him and started on the long walk back to his chambers.

By this time next week, Arthur would be dead.


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: Not much to say here, other than thank you once again for all the heart-warming and encouraging reviews, favourites and follows, and I hope you enjoy this chapter. Oh and the end is nigh...I anticipate another 2 or 3 chapters after this one (plus maybe an epilogue if one seems appropriate...can you tell how disorganised I am?).**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin**

* * *

**Chapter 22**

By all rights, Arthur knew he should be able to relax and concentrate on more important things; at least as far as the council and his kingdom were concerned. But his thoughts kept being ambushed by one man, no matter how hard he tried to barricade his mind from him. When he was eating - or was supposed to be - Merlin was there. And judging by the way George tutted and sighed - as he sat quietly in the corner, giving Arthur's boots an unnecessary third coat of polish - he was growing concerned that so many of the King's meals were being churned into unidentifiable gloop on his plate and not in his stomach. When Arthur was at his desk, the pile of reports never seemed to shrink, and either he was being troubled by déjà vu, or he'd read the same page in his hand enough times to see the words etched onto the inside of his eyelids, though their meaning had still not sunk in.

Even now, as he stood on the castle steps, dressed in his finest regalia and surrounded by every knight, noble, and servant that could be spared to add sufficient pomp to the welcoming ceremony, his mind was not on the royal escort that had come to a stop in the main courtyard, nor on the young, dark-haired Prince who was dismounting his horse. Instead, it was on the man the Prince superficially resembled (or at least, as far as Arthur's imagination was concerned); with his lanky build, blue eyes, pale skin and coal-dark hair. The one man whose presence he oddly felt more - now that it was missing - than he had ever done when his friend had skulked somewhere behind him; awaiting orders to assist the visitors to their guest quarters.

_Not missing_, Arthur chided himself: _hidden away; caged_. Until the idiot stopped making the King feel like his head and heart were going to implode from the unending assault on his wits and feelings. Even so, he found it hard to admit - least of all to Gwen and his knights, with their censuring glances - that his plan to protect himself, from the distraction that a magic-wielding, down-hearted, and wandering Merlin presented, had backfired. Spectacularly. And sufficiently for even Arthur to question the wisdom of not giving Merlin one last chance (before Prince Anlawd's arrival) to prove that his desire for self-preservation had increased maybe just a little bit. All that this would have meant, however, was that the King's thinking capacity would be transferred entirely to the other subject plaguing his mind: magic and what to do about the fact Merlin had it.

So many aspects of magic still troubled him, despite the conversation he and Gaius had had in the dungeon, and the many days he'd been mulling things over since then. Arthur felt that he could be partially forgiven for his procrastination though. Magic, in all its complexities, was not a subject that could be understood in one or even several days; however enlightened the thinker. Gaius himself - fountain of knowledge that he was - had admitted on numerous occasions in the past that he didn't know everything there was to know about it. And aside from the theoretical and practical side of how magic worked, there was the more visceral aspect to it to be considered. Arthur would be the first to admit that his skills in understanding and participating in issues of an emotional nature was as underdeveloped as Gwaine's ability to say 'no' to a buy-one-get-one-free deal at the tavern. But in this instance, it could not be avoided.

Allowing magic to have an impact on his life had many personal implications for Arthur. For one, he had to accept that if magic was not to be blamed for the evil in the heart of a sorcerer, then the terrible things that Morgana had done to her own family and friends were a matter of choice, not coercion. Arthur wasn't entirely sure he was comfortable with that idea yet, because it meant that the woman he had grown up with, and had hoped could still be somewhere within that dark, hateful exterior, was actually a stranger to him. The person she was now might be the person she had been all along, but had simply been kept hidden out of fear for her existence. Which beggared the question, if he _was_ to lift the ban on magic, thereby ensuring Merlin would be spared his fate, would Morgana even be capable of a change of heart, when hers was adamantly set on hurting those she'd once pretended to love?

And what of the other sorcerers he'd ever had the misfortune to cross paths with? Would they no longer be a threat to the people of Camelot, if magic was not outlawed, or were their souls as corrupted by hate and the need for revenge as his sister's? Dare he take the risk that Merlin was not the only exception to the mantra he had lived his life by so far, and give others who used magic the benefit of the doubt? Gaius may have assured him that there were many sorcerers out there who only wished to use their gift for the benefit of others, rather than their own gain, but without solid evidence to back these claims, how could Arthur be sure that years of persecution, and living with fear of punishment hanging over their heads had not driven them to seek power and vengeance as well? The physician's knowledge and magical acquaintances had to be mostly based on those that had fled Uther's subjugation _over twenty years ago_ (no-one else would have dared show their face in Camelot since then), and who knew if any of them were even still alive, never mind if they were keen to return to and serve the kingdom that had rejected them, if the law was no longer there to prevent it.

Magic may once have been all around them, as Gaius had informed him - and Arthur still found it difficult to suppress an instinctive shiver at the thought - but up until now, it had remained invisible and mostly harmless (aside from a few insane fanatics), and if he did nothing to change the status quo, was it not inconceivable to believe that they would all be a lot safer that way? Gaius himself had not suffered in any way over the years since he had rejected his gift and pledged himself to the man who would see him dead had he not; regardless of the fact that they were as close to 'friends' as Uther could claim to be.

Aside from the technicalities of actually doing it (and the thought of all the tedious meetings and arguments he would have to participate in with the other members of the council was far from appealing), if Arthur was to repeal the law, how exactly was he to go about undoing 25 years of ingrained hatred and fear in the people, when _he_ was finding it no easy hurdle to overcome? Being _told_ all the good things magic could do didn't have quite the same impact as seeing it with his own eyes, and he imagined that after all the magical attacks the city had endured in recent times, he was not the only one to be a tad sceptical of the possibility that sorcerers could use their skills for kind as well as heinous intent. He may have been present for many of the demonstrations Merlin had given over the years, but he had been blissfully unaware of magic's hand in their victories at the time, and therefore had only his servant's word for it.

It was not that he _didn't_ believe him (the fact he was still there to debate the issue was testament to there being at least _some_ truth in the extraordinary tales he had been told), just that it was hard to come to terms with how much of his own fame and reputation was owed to someone else; someone unseen and unthanked. And Arthur had spent many a moment - spare or stolen - since he'd been apprised of the help he'd received, contemplating every seemingly deadly situation he had found himself in and miraculously escaped from...with Merlin by his side (if he was not cowering under a bush). Okay, maybe not 'cowering', as it turned out; rather, secretly saving. But it made Arthur question whether he still deserved the right to receive the respect and adulation of his people, when all along Merlin had been the hero? How would the people react if they were to discover that it was not their sovereign's strength and courage that had kept them safe, but a peasant sorcerer, who had hidden in plain sight for so many years? Would they accept Arthur's word that Merlin could be trusted - when he was having a hard time doing so himself - and that not only should he be allowed to continue practicing his abilities freely, but so should every other sorcerer who they had been unaware existed up until then? Or would they start throwing around ugly words like 'enchanted' and 'weak-minded fool'; demanding Merlin's execution and Arthur's replacement?

It was a question that had never ceased its demand for an answer: what _was_ he to do with Merlin? As far as his Uncle, and the majority - if not all - of the council were concerned, the answer was clear. But the thought of watching as his friend was tied to a pyre in the very courtyard he now stood above made Arthur's stomach turn worse than it had when he realised he'd been eating rat stew. In any case, how could he burn someone for making decisions - which had probably appeared to be the only options at the time - out of a quite rational fear for the lives of the same people that Arthur himself held dear? If that was so, then how many times should _he_ have been put to death for murdering peaceful druid camps and dismissing Merlin's warnings of the dangerous intent of a seeming ally?

But then did the other options - punishment or imprisonment - for deeds Merlin had not yet done, and may never do, make Arthur any less bigoted or farsighted than his father? Hadn't Uther's imprisonment of the Great Dragon had greater consequences for the kingdom as a whole than the benefits of keeping a potential killer out of harm's way, and using him as a warning to others with magic to discontinue their practices? Though his methods for keeping Merlin out of his own harm's way had been likened - by those whose opinion mattered to Arthur - to a punitive measure, it had not been his true intent. But then where did he draw the line between an act of kindness and one that was selfish? Maybe he _was_ keeping Merlin under lock and key for his own benefit, and not his friend's. Because if he was really honest with himself (and if he was going to reveal his feelings to anyone, he ought to start with himself), the thought of losing Merlin was unbearable; certainly not to the man's misconceived feelings of inadequacy and shame. But as Gaius had suggested, allowing fear to influence his decisions may turn out to be a greater error than relying on the faith he wished he could have in greater supply; faith in himself as much as in Merlin.

Arthur was beginning to doubt his chances now, if he was to face a foe - where the odds were greatly against him, or magic was their weapon of choice - without Merlin by his side. To say nothing of the odd comfort the clumsy oaf imparted during his random bouts of sagacity, and by simply being...there. Arthur had never had someone he could call 'friend' and mean it, before Merlin came along, and though he still found it a challenge to use the word publicly to describe the servant, he hoped his actions towards the man made it unnecessary to do so. Apart from a handful of occasions, when he had had to imprison Merlin - though in truth he had felt torn doing so - Arthur didn't believe that he had ever done anything to show hostility or disdain towards the man. Well, apart from the times when he had made slanderous remarks against a group of people Merlin had been a secret member of his whole life; remarks which now made Arthur ache with regret.

_But I didn't do it that often, did I? Not often enough to make Merlin want to... Well okay, maybe I did. Me and my big mouth! Would we be in this predicament, if I had only kept my opinion to myself? _ But then would he be able to consider Merlin the friend that he was if he could not vent his frustrations in front of him, without fear of reprisals or judgement?

_I'm only human, and Merlin is the first man who ever realised and accepted that._ Merlin had never expected Arthur to hide his fears and doubts, or put his head before his heart, when a decision had to be made. He had never condemned the King for his rants and explosions of temper, his tears or his cries of pain. No matter how many times Arthur had thrown his possessions at the man, or come at him with a sword, or dragged him on hunts, or thrown him in the stocks, Merlin had come back with a smile and words of his utter belief in Arthur. Even the most loyal of his hounds would have eventually resorted to showing its displeasure dentally on a proffered limb, given just half that level of abuse! _Doesn't such loyalty deserve to be recognised, not condemned?_

It took a loud cough, from Agravaine beside him, to draw Arthur back to the present, and he struggled to force as genuine a smile as he could muster onto his face. He pulled his thoughts back to the diplomatic mission at hand, before they could sink back into the swirling ink he had dragged them from. _Later_, he would deal with the questions, fears, and dilemmas about the man with whom he would normally speak when he had a problem he had tried and failed to handle alone. _Later_, if the man would let him, he would gain more insight into Merlin's thoughts, and maybe even ask him for ideas on how to solve his issues with magic. And later, he would apologise to his friend, though Arthur did wonder if 'sorry' could ever be enough to earn Merlin's forgiveness for the stupid mistakes he had made; for the hurt he now knew he had caused.

_And if he can forgive me, then surely he can do the same for himself. Then things can go back to the way they were before, and...oh who am I kidding? Things are _never_ going to be the same again_. The thought made him feel sad and bitter in equal measure. Because of one overheard conversation, his life had been so irrevocably changed, and no amount of words exchanged in anger or solace could restore it to the way it had been before. Whatever the outcome of the conversation he had later with Merlin, everything would be different. Even the way he regarded his servant could never go back to the way it had been, because Merlin was not what he thought he was. He was _not_ a useless imbecile and he _did_ have some idea of how the burden of responsibility felt, and though Arthur was glad he _finally_ knew the cause of that secret 'something' about Merlin he had been vaguely aware of from the moment they had met, he couldn't help mourning the loss of his ignorance.

A pointed shuffling of feet at his side jolted Arthur forwards into accepting the Prince's hand, extended in friendship. _Later, later; there will be time enough then. No sense in rushing into things, and buggering up worse than I already have!_

For the time being, he would fulfil the role that was expected of him. He would meet and greet and simper and bow. He would listen to the speeches and give some of his own; maybe not as well-worded as Merlin's usually were, but he would have to make do. He would dine and make small talk and laugh graciously at dull jokes. And all the while try _not_ to think about his unhappy friend, who _wasn't_ standing behind him with a pitcher, nor handing him his sword nor rolling his eyes at the ridiculous airs and graces his master put on for other nobles, but which he dropped like a hot coal when the doors to his chambers closed, and he could just be 'Arthur' again.

Since his earliest memories this was the way visits from allies and potential ones had been. The difference now was that he lead the talks instead of merely being an object his father paraded before the visitors; an example of Camelot's might and a benefit or warning of the treaty they were there to sign, depending on whether they wanted or needed the alliance. The words he was required to say, in this diplomatic act they all performed, were so ingrained in his memory as to demand only minimum effort to bring them forth. In that one area, his father had passed on a legacy he could be proud of. Even if his other teachings were more questionable; deplorable. For a brief moment, Arthur wondered who was the greater liar: himself for his false compliments to his guest, when his first impulse was to mock, or Merlin for his life-long disguise as a man of no consequence or power, when he was anything but.

To Arthur's relief and great pride, the castle's staff were as well rehearsed in the rituals of a royal visit as he was, and had therefore required relatively little input from him in their preparations for Prince Anlawd and his entourage. Guest rooms had been aired and dusted, beds made and floors scrubbed. Stables had been cleared and stalls shunted about to accommodate the extra beasts. Enough food to feed an army for several weeks had been brought in (from local farmers and further afield where necessary), and extra staff had been hired to supplement the castle's regular servants for the few days they would have more to do than they could manage. There were always plenty of newcomers to the city, and those in need of extra coin; willing to take whatever work was offered, even if it was only on a temporary basis.

For several days now, the castle had been a chaotic swarm of industry, such that any trek from one part of it to another would take twice as long as normal, as one dodged and weaved around the constant stream of hastily moving bodies; like an intricate dance one had to know the moves to by instinct. One wrong move and several 'dancers' could lose their footing. Arthur had to smudge a smirk behind a gloved pinch of his nose's bridge, at the thought of all the sighs of relief the servants - who knew Merlin - would be making, when they realised that he and his clumsy feet would not be joining the dance. There would be far fewer toes trodden on, pitchers of wine spilt and freshly-cleaned laundry dirtied with the King's trouble-magnet tucked safely out of sight. But it did make the visit terribly boring.

Finally, with the usual formalities exchanged, Arthur was free to return to his chambers and be divulged of his heavy finery; accompanied by George's distinctly unfunny commentary. Meanwhile, Prince Anlawd and his company were lead to their rooms to rest after their long journey, by a servant who was neither scruffy nor clumsy and would not afterwards run up to his master's rooms to share his less than appropriate thoughts on the pomposity of the proceedings as well as the mountain that his workload had therefore become.

* * *

The following days played out much the same, with Arthur's daylight hours filled with one long, dull meeting after another; with Prince Anlawd and their mutual advisors, or his round table knights. The monotony was only broken up by the odd friendly spar between Dyfed's finest warriors and Camelot's. Arthur had been informed that Leon had coaxed or threatened Gwaine - mostly the latter - to be present and sober enough to adequately represent Camelot, and the King managed relatively well to avert his eyes from the surly knight's dark glare, when he was elected to oppose Anlawd's choice in the display of swordsmanship. Gwaine, not surprisingly, had won his match, and even managed a passable bow, with an accompanying "My Lord" in Arthur's general direction, before stalking off towards the armoury; his duty begrudgingly done and the field left open to his comrades-at-arms to provide further demonstrations of military prowess.

Arthur did consider sending one of the other knights after him, to ensure he did not vent any frustrations - that had not been voided in the bout - on other, less prepared people, or the bottle, but remembering Gwaine's outburst at the meeting earlier that day, the King decided against it. The man needed some time alone to cool off.

"_The patrol team to the south reported no further bandit activity in that part of the Darkling Woods. They did, however, speak to a traders' caravan passing through the area from the Mountains of Isgard, and there was news of another group of thieves operating on the outskirts of the Forest of Ascetir."_

_Arthur clenched his jaw. The supply of opportunists, willing to take the lives of Camelot's citizens and risk a death sentence from her King (for the sake of a livelihood based on others' honest toil, rather than their own), was seemingly endless. No sooner was one group eradicated than another took its place; making any journey around his kingdom far from the haven he tried so hard to make it. And the criminals' misdeeds cost more than the value of the goods and coins they stole from their victims. It was Camelot's coffers that had to pay knights' wages - as well as clothe, arm and feed them - so that they could patrol and keep the kingdom safe; and ultimately it was the people who had to dig into their pockets, in the form of tax increases. Did these brigands have no idea of the detriment to society they created through their desire to cheat their way to their earnings?_

"_Okay, thank you, Leon. If you haven't done so already, double the patrol on the South Eastern border, until this new group is discovered."_

_The first knight gave a curt bow of his head in acknowledgement and sat back down in his seat; reaching across the table for his goblet to moisten his now-dry throat._

"_Does anyone have any other news to report?" Arthur asked, and glanced around the table at all present._

_Elyan returned his gaze; blank-faced and a little tired, after his shift of helping to enforce the nightly curfew until the early hours of that morning. Percival looked around at his friends' faces; openly interested in any news he might have missed, while out on one of the aforementioned patrols. Leon had replaced his goblet and sat up straight; his brow furrowed in anticipation of whatever orders the King issued from the news they might hear. Gwaine...Gwaine was wearing an expression on his face that would make a bull - standing in a field of poppies and boxed in by washing lines holding every Camelot knight's cloak - seem as threatening as a newborn lamb. And he had been wearing it for the entirety of the meeting._

_Although Arthur had expected sarcastic comments or sniping remarks at several golden opportunities presented over the last hour, the knight had remained unnervingly silent; giving as short and to-the-point answers as he could get away with, whenever asked a direct question. And now that Arthur was taking the time to look at the man properly, he appeared to be sporting a black eye, beneath the folds of his sharply-creased forehead. Arthur immediately allowed his gaze to pass on; in no mood to deal with what was likely a man still nursing a hangover and injuries received after yet another inebriated evening. More evidence of the consequences of an out-of-commission Merlin, who would have either helped to drag Gwaine away from the tavern before he could start the brawl, or at the very least negate the man's reason for drowning his sorrows in a barrel of booze in the first place._

"_Then thank you, gentlemen. Dismissed." Arthur allowed himself to stare off into space for a moment, his fingers laced and resting on the edge of the table, as the sounds of chair legs being scraped over stone, followed by the clink of chainmail and tap of footsteps washed over him. Distantly, he heard the door to his chambers open, as the first of the knights made to leave, and Arthur forced his thoughts back to the present and the next council session he was due to attend shortly, when he noticed that not everyone had left their seat._

"_If there's something you have to say, Gwaine, then you'd better be quick about it, because I've another meeting to go to." The feet that had been on their way out the room halted their progress, and Arthur couldn't help hoping that with an audience - even though they were his friends, and not as easily shocked by his disrespectful manners - Gwaine would keep whatever he had to say short and decent._

_Gwaine looked up at him, his eyes burning so hard through his limp bangs, Arthur was surprised his hair wasn't issuing smoke. After a moment or two of jaw tensing, the man gave him a cold smirk and said, "Yeah, you're an arse."_

_Arthur heard an exasperated sigh behind him, that he was sure came from Elyan, and though he didn't look at the other knights, he could imagine the eye rolls and long-suffering looks that passed between them. "I beg your pardon?" he said, allowing a hint of outrage to creep into his voice; vainly hoping Gwaine would simply fob him off with a badly-conceived excuse and leave._

"_You heard me."_

_Arthur huffed out a long breath of his own: no such luck! He had neither the time nor the inclination to deal with Gwaine's insubordinate behaviour, with the treaty, bandit movements and everything else pulsing through his tired brain. "Go home, Gwaine, and sleep it off," he said, rubbing at his own sore head with one hand. "I have no wish to continue whatever fight you picked and lost at the tavern last night." Arthur looked directly at the bearded knight and indicated his bruised face with a flick of his fingers._

_Gwaine raised his own hand and absentmindedly prodded at the swollen, discoloured flesh around his eye, as if he had forgotten receiving it, or perhaps been too drunk to feel its creation. But then his eyes snapped back from the middle-distance between them to the King's face, and they were like two shards of obsidian; glinting with not the slightest trace of his usual jocularity._

"_I haven't touched a drop since Wednesday," he snapped, and given that it was Friday, that was achievement enough for Arthur's eyes to widen in surprise. Then he noticed the tension in the knight's shoulders, and the severe control he had on his breathing, as if he was only just preventing himself from self-combusting. Suddenly, Arthur had a horrible feeling it wouldn't be such a good idea to continue with their conversation, but since they were in his chambers, and he needed to prepare himself for the next couple of hours of treaty talks, he couldn't walk away, and therefore had little choice but to ride the storm._

"_Then I would like to offer my congratulations to whichever maid or noblewoman had the common sense to turn down your offer," Arthur said, trying to coax a mocking grin to stay on his face for more than a second or two. "Honestly, Gwaine, is there a woman in Camelot whose reputation you haven't tried to -"_

"_It wasn't a girl," the knight cut him off; his words hissing from between gritted teeth, as though he was spitting out a nest of vipers. Then, just as the King was opening his mouth to make another slanderous accusation, Gwaine continued with, "It was Merlin."_

_His words hung in the air for half a minute, as if they had been spoken in a language all present had to concentrate hard to translate, but before Arthur could voice his disbelief at his manservant displaying the ability to hit like a member of his own gender for once, Elyan piped up from the doorway with an incredulous "Merlin?"_

_Which was swiftly followed by Percival's astonished, "Why?"_

_And having no other pertinent questions of his own to ask, Arthur looked back to Gwaine for the answers he knew they were all holding their breaths to hear._

"_Because I said he should eat something."_

_There was a heavy pause, while everyone digested his words, and in one or two cases, wondered if their hearing was functioning correctly._

"_Eat something?" Percival said, his voice coming from closer than before; the three standing knights having halted their exit and moved closer to the conversation._

"_Why would he hit you for suggesting he eat?" Elyan asked, his brow furrowed and his mouth parted in a confused half-smile, like he was waiting for the punchline of what appeared to be a joke._

"_Dunno," Gwaine shrugged, not taking his eyes away from the hold they had on the King's; a look passing between them that told Arthur he was not being entirely truthful and he wanted him to know it. "But it's kind of odd, don't you think?" He appeared to be addressing the question to the whole room, though the tilt of his head and the way his grasp of Arthur's returning glare intensified, told the King he alone was the intended recipient. "Bit...out of character, wouldn't you say..._Sire_?"_

_Arthur winced infinitesimally; hoping he had not been seen, but knowing, by the gloating look of triumph - that cleared some of the seriousness, but none of the blame - from Gwaine's face, that he had, at least. He had an inkling of what accusation Gwaine was working towards making, and it was the combination of this and the memory of Gwen's conversation with him the other day that brought a guilty flush to his cheeks._

_Not wishing to remain under the heat of the knight's gaze any longer, and acutely aware at the back of his mind that his precious free time was slipping away, Arthur stood up from the table and walked over to his desk. He began to gather sheets of parchment together - some of which he would need for the meeting, and others he would not; paying little attention to what he was doing, as he continued to listen to the conversation being held by his knights. Simultaneously, he was mulling over the exact wording Gwen had used when describing Merlin's state of mind, though all that he could remember was that she had thought he was not himself. Which - Arthur remembered with a quickening heart rate - he had dismissed as nothing out of the ordinary, given all that had happened to him; and most of which Gwen was not privy to._

"_I noticed he seemed a bit...stressed yesterday, when I was with him," Leon joined in from where he stood by the door, which had been closed again; keeping their discourse within the King's chambers. Arthur glanced up to see the curly-haired knight thoughtfully plucking at his lower lip. "But I put it down to him not getting much sleep the night before."_

"_Did he say why?" Elyan asked._

"_He didn't _say_ anything," Leon replied. "But he had bags under his eyes and his hands were trembling slightly, so he didn't need to." The first knight looked over to the table, and Gwaine's back; the other knights' gazes following suit. "But he didn't hit me, Gwaine, so what _else_ did you do, and what does it have to do with Arthur?"_

_At this, the scruffy knight abruptly stood from his chair with such force, it tilted back dangerously and almost fell over, before its front legs fell back to the floor with a loud bang. Gwaine turned towards the other knights and glared; his hands held like two flail balls at his sides, waiting to be swung at anyone who dared come too close._

"_Everything!" he growled. "And to answer your first question, Leon," here he pivoted round to meet Arthur's stare again, as the King stood in the middle of the room with his hands around a stack of pages, "_I_ didn't do anything. _I_ didn't lock my best friend in his room and then throw away the key. _I_ haven't abandoned him for several days to stew in his own juices, while I gallivant about the place, showing off to some two-bit Prince from nowhere land, just so he can go back home and tell everyone he meets how great I am." Gwaine ignored Leon's warning call of his name and barrelled on regardless. "And _I_ didn't place magic bangles round my friend's wrists without reading the label first!"_

"_Magic?" Percival asked, his eyebrows raised so high they almost collided with his hairline, at the same time as Arthur shouted out:_

"_Gwaine, you forget your place!"_

"_At least I don't forget my friends!" Gwaine snarled back._

_Arthur stepped forwards a few paces, one hand automatically reaching for a sword pommel that wasn't there, while the other crushed the paper it held to his chest. "Get out, Gwaine!" he shouted, his eyes simmering._

_Gwaine nodded his head slowly as he looked at Arthur's red face; not even bothering to hide his contempt. "S'like I said to Merlin: nothing but a thorough. Bred. Arse!" and before Arthur could release the threat perched on the edge of his tongue, the knight spun on his heel and stalked towards the exit._

_The other knights watched silently as Gwaine approached them and then stopped; looking up at Leon, who was still barred the way._

"_Excuse me, Sir Leon, but I would like to use the door," Gwaine said, in his most falsely polite voice and with an equally fake smile plastered on his face._

_Leon didn't budge a muscle, but glanced over to meet Arthur's eyes, as the King observed the encounter. Arthur assumed his first knight was awaiting the order to detain their insubordinate comrade, but after a moment, the King shook his head, and cast his eyes to the floor resignedly. Leon stepped aside._

_Gwaine threw open the door with enough strength for it to bang the wall, and Elyan - who had been standing beside it - winced as Gwaine left the room; not so much as glancing at his friends or shutting the door behind him. Arthur sighed and went behind the dressing screen, where he placed his crown on his head and pinned his cloak to his back; reflecting on how ironic it was that someone as innocuous as Merlin could bring out the best and worst in people, without even being in the same room._

_"Magic bangles?" Elyan repeated, and Arthur sighed once more; inwardly this time. Ironic, as well, how a decision made in anger and haste could revisit him to bite _him_ on the arse!_

* * *

The last couple of days of Prince Anlawd's visit passed by in a blur. Before Arthur knew it, the treaty had been signed, the royal party had their belongings packed, and all that remained was the traditional celebratory feast.

With his mind now relatively free of any concerns about the treaty and royal visitors, who would be leaving in the morning, Arthur found himself spending an inordinate amount of time staring into space; worrying again about the conclusions he had not come to yet, with regards to his previous thought thief. Guilt and Gwaine's opinion aside, he knew he'd had more than enough time to think matters through. More than that, he owed Merlin: his forgiveness, his gratitude, his life. Therefore he had come to accept that the time for avoidance and excuses was over.

The trouble was, he didn't feel comfortable approaching the man without a decision made. King though he may be, he could not suddenly overturn laws written so long ago, and which the people depended on to feel safe in their homes and confident in their monarch's ability to make choices on their behalf. Unlike his father though, he was not prepared to make a sacrifice of even one life for the sake of the greater good. To Arthur, every life was precious; each of his subjects was a part of the great machine that was a working kingdom. Remove even one of its components - however small and insignificant - and eventually, the machine would come grinding to a halt.

And Merlin was no insignificant part. Aside from the fact that he kept the King marginally fragrant and fed, he did a better than average job of keeping him sane. It was not something Arthur had ever realised a need for before he met Merlin, and he knew now that even after the young man had stumbled into his life, it had taken him an embarrassingly long time to acknowledge the benefit he provided. Whether it was to protect his life or ensure he made rational decisions.

_Not that he's been particularly rational lately, though_, Arthur thought. Whilst he had given none of his thoughts away at the time, Arthur had been as shocked as Elyan, Percival and Leon to learn who had given Gwaine his black eye, and for what reason; or lack of reason, as Gwaine had explained it. So just what _had_ spurred Merlin to lose control like that? If it had been just the one incident, then perhaps he could dismiss the occurrence as being no more remarkable than any of the other times someone had lost their patience with Gwaine's tactless tongue, and decided to punish its owner by tenderising his face. But Gwen too had been disturbed by his behaviour; enough to stand outside the council chambers for an hour, just to bring it to his attention.

Arthur felt guilty now that he had so readily excused Merlin's demeanour to her; something - come to think of it - he had unconsciously done too many times to count, over the years he had known the man (and to more than one or two people who had cast doubt on his state of mind). Now that Merlin's secret skill and activities were no longer so, it made Arthur wonder just how many times he should not have simply accepted that Merlin was being 'Merlin', and he should instead have delved deeper into the mystery that was his manservant. Perhaps if he had been less focused on trying to divert Gwen from any lines of question that might have lead to her finding out about Merlin's magic (because he was having a hard enough time dealing with it himself and preventing others from its discovery before he could decide what to do about it, rather than be forced into doing something he would regret), he might have had the sense to query her further on the grounds for her doubts about Merlin's fettle.

But what could bring about such a dramatic change to the previously docile and tolerant young man? Not for the first time, Arthur's mind brought forth a picture of himself, as he sealed the manacles on his friend's wrists, and the shudder that had passed through Merlin; unconscious though he had been. Just what had Gwaine meant by 'without reading the label'? What was there to read? They were a simple, pain-free tool for suppressing a sorcerer's magic; end of story. So why was the vision eating away at his conscience, like maggots on a festering carcass? Had he known - subconsciously - that the shackles would have other side effects? Had he deliberately - and with malicious intent - forced them on Merlin regardless; a retaliation for the many secrets he'd kept and the deeds he'd confessed to that night?

Without Merlin as his conscience, Arthur couldn't be sure that he knew his own mind anymore. He had all the advisors that money and position could buy, but for some years now, and without realising it had happened, Merlin's opinion had become the one that mattered most. His approval could part clouds on an overcast day, while his disappointment made Arthur feel like he was that five-year-old boy again, who had slunk away to the darkest, dustiest cupboard he could find in the castle in the hope he could distance himself from the shame of his nurse discovering his wet bed. His friend drove Arthur to strive to better himself; to be the King Merlin assured him he could be. But for weeks now, it had felt like he was incomplete; that he was missing half of himself. And it had gone on long enough. His people deserved a whole King, not half of one.

Tomorrow. That was when he would speak to Merlin. Somehow, together, they would find the solution to all of this. _And if the idiot doesn't start showing himself more respect, then I'll damn well make him, like he does me. No-one treats the King's best friend the way he has been, and I won't leave him alone until I get it through his bloody thick skull!_

Arthur released a long, lungful of air loudly, and Prince Anlawd, sitting at the banquet table to his right, stopped mid-sentence; a concerned frown directed at his host.

"Something vexing you, sire?"

Arthur blinked rapidly and looked at the Prince as if perturbed to find the man sitting there, and immediately shoved a placatory and apologetic smile onto his less than enthusiastic face. The guilt, that he'd been so lost in thoughts for the past hour as to have taken in only a perfunctory view of what his guest had been talking about, brought a slight flush to his cheeks. He reached for his goblet, with the dual aim of giving the embarrassing colour a chance to drain away and to think of a plausible excuse for his apparent inattentiveness.

The goblet, however, was disappointingly empty of anything to prolong the moment, and Arthur frowned into it; realising that he had drunk its entire contents only semi-consciously. _Gods, I'm turning into Gwaine!_

Clearing his throat, he said, "Um no, not at all, Anlawd; I was just...reflecting...on what you said," as he held his goblet aloft to signal a refill. A flash of something familiar in his peripheral vision had Arthur take in a sharp breath and look up at the face hovering just over his shoulder, to check who it in fact was pouring his drink. But the shock of black hair, and red ceremonial Camelot servant's uniform belonged to someone other than the person who had first sprung to mind, and Arthur dismissed the face of what was probably one of the temporary members of staff from his concern.

He turned back to his refilled vessel to take a sip; his stomach curling with a mixture of disappointment and relief, and Arthur gave his head a small shake to ease the image's passage away from him. He was allowing his anxiety to permeate his consciousness too far, and now his imagination was beginning to poke fun at him. Merlin wasn't and couldn't be there. Gwaine was seeing to that tonight; and Arthur found it difficult to keep the smirk from his face at the serendipitous turn of events that had the rebellious knight scheduled to guard the warlock instead of being given free rein to indulge in his favourite past-time with his fellow knights at the feast. Not that Arthur would typically seek revenge, but if circumstances wanted to do so on his behalf, he wouldn't turn down the opportunity to gloat just a little, as well as feel a modicum of relief that he wouldn't have to make any effort to avoid the man's sour glowers that would undoubtedly be cast his way for longer and longer periods during the evening; the more drink Gwaine drank.

"I see," the Prince replied, his brow creased in a playful frown, while a knowing smile tugged at his lips. "And so what is your point of view on the matter?"

"Ah...well now, it is...as yet...undecided," Arthur fumbled, admiring as well as cursing the fact that the Prince had not been fooled. "Why don't you enlighten me further, and perhaps you can sway my opinion one way or another."

And so the Prince did, and Arthur tried to listen this time; ignoring the suppressed snigger issuing from his Uncle, seated to his left.

Agravaine had been twitchy since the feast began. Arthur had admittedly not paid his Uncle much heed either, but he had noticed that the man had been quieter than normal and had smiled less; the smiles he did give not lasting long or stretching very wide. Arthur had also noticed - on a subliminal level - the number of times his Uncle had requested a refill of his own goblet. The man was usually a very light drinker; much more so than his brother-in-law had been.

Arthur's eyes grew distant, and his own smile more nostalgic as he recalled the many times he'd attended feasts such as this one at his father's side. Too many times, as the evening had waned, he had served less as a conversational partner and more as a prop, until such time as Uther had reached his capacity and consented (or been given very little choice in the matter, with virtually no control over his limbs) to being half-escorted, half-carried to his chambers, to spend the remainder of his inebriation unconscious. Arthur supposed that a large part of Uther's need to drown out his thoughts was the intrusion of his own memories of sitting in the same hall; but with his wife as his dining partner, as oppose to his son. Where the distance of years was insufficient to dissolve the reminiscences, wine - for a short time - would do an adequate job.

As far as Arthur was aware, Agravaine did not have a similarly tragic loss (apart from the one he and Uther shared) to desire forgetting. Arthur did recall from his youth an unconfirmed rumour that had been circling the court, regarding his Uncle and a married woman, ten years his senior. Lord Boterel had discovered his wife's infidelity after it had been going on for some time, but on her refusal to divulge her lover's name, the unforgiving man had had his wife executed on grounds of sorcery. Being a second cousin of King Uther, the Lord had required very little evidence to back his claims, and after a short trial, the unfaithful lady had been taken care of under the relatively painless edge of an executioner's axe. There were some who said that part of the reason for Agravaine's falling out with Uther had been the role he'd played in Lady Boterel's death; whilst others suggested that the Lord's only desire had been for her position and money, and that following his loss, he had merely moved onto the next willing and well-to-do mistress.

But tonight, Arthur could see no reason for the Lord to drink and act so nervously. It couldn't be concerns for the treaty, as that had been dealt with, and with no big compromises on either side. In addition, the kingdom was enjoying a fairly consistent period of peace, with no recent threats on the horizon. Apart from the ongoing one provided by Morgana, but she had made no move to resume her bid for the throne since she had instigated the tearing of the veil and release of the Dorocha. For the moment, at least, they could all take advantage of the respite.

_Well, until tomorrow, anyway. But does Merlin care enough about what happens to him to hear what I have to say? Will it be enough to make him stop this senseless desire to destroy himself? Because if I have anything to do with it, it will not be done by my hand, nor the hand of anyone else I have any control over. How can I make him see that he has no need to be ashamed; that his mistakes are no worse than anyone else's; that he is not alone? And can I really promise him freedom when there is a whole world out there that doesn't know him like I do, but will hate him for who it thinks he is?_

_Maybe someone else should be doing this instead of me? I'm terrible at this sort of thing. Gwen, or Gwaine, or...Lancelot. _Arthur wished, as he did whenever he had any concern for his servant's well being, that the noble knight had not sacrificed himself to the veil. He and Merlin had seemed to have a very close friendship and he'd often-times caught them whispering together at a quiet moment during training, elsewhere about the castle or around a campfire, when one would keep the other company for their watches. It had given Arthur a strange sense of comfort to see that at least one person could be the open friend to Merlin that he deserved to have and which protocol dictated the King simply couldn't be. Plus Lancelot appeared to have a genuine concern for the younger man, and would make a point of ensuring his back was covered when they encountered trouble Merlin had neither the physique nor skill to deal with.

_Okay, maybe Merlin was not as vulnerable as we were all led to believe, and Lancelot was well aware of that, but at least he was there as a safeguard. Not even an all powerful sorcerer has eyes in the back of his head; that last trip we made to the Valley of the Fallen Kings was proof of that! Come to think of it, would we even be in this whole stupid mess, if Lancelot was still alive to give whatever comfort he was vastly superior at than a King?_ It was not in Arthur's nature to be a jealous man, but wistful he could accomplish quite easily. He wished he could have been there for Merlin when he needed him. All those times when he had made some great sacrifice and kept his pain to himself. But if they could go back and do it all again, just how different a person would he have been?

It dawned on Arthur that he no longer felt a whirlwind of anger stir in his gut at the thought of the lies he had been told by more than one person, in order to cover Merlin's secret. Now all he felt was a muted kind of sadness, as more evidence was revealed to him that while he had placed his full trust in and had been completely honest with those he felt closer to than even his own blood relatives, they - through their fear - could not bring themselves to reciprocate.

_Who is really the monster here, Merlin: you or me? Was Morgana right to group me in the same category as our father? Am I, by my birthright and nature a tyrant?_

"_Well, I know you. And you're a great warrior. One day you'll be a great King."_

At least Merlin had believed in _him_...once. How was it that he could forgive his King for every mistake he had made, but would not extend the same courtesy to himself?_ Stupid, stubborn sod! _

_All I need is one sign...one small sign, to let me know that he's doing okay in there, and that I can take off those bloody manacles. I don't want to hurt him anymore than I already have, but how can I be sure that he won't do something idiotic again? I don't think I could stand not knowing what he will do next, and that maybe I won't be around to save his life again. Why does that Clotpole have to go and make my life so bloody complicated! We all do stupid things from time to time; what makes his stupidity any less forgivable than anyone else's?_

Arthur stifled a yawn. _Gods, I'm so tired! I just have to get this damn feast over and done with, get some decent sleep and then go and tell that Idiot -_

A flash of black hair and red and gold uniform invaded the corner of his vision again, but over the course of the evening, he had compelled himself to become immune to these light slaps to his awareness; to the point that he no longer saw the man he wanted and dreaded to see. And so it took one or two heartbeats more than he has been trained to do for him to react to the dull thud to his chest. But by then, he was bombarded by sensation after sensation in such quick succession that he had too little time to comprehend, label and put them in any semblance of order.

All of a sudden, the room had erupted in screams and shouts and chairs scraping back, and as King, he knew he should be at the forefront; giving the orders for calm and to ascertain and deal with the threat. But then there was a shrieking, freezing, shattering pain coming from the point on his chest where the thud had occurred; minutes or merely moments ago, he was not sure anymore. Slowly, as if trying to push his head through a castle-thick wall of mud, he looked down to see the black of a leather-bound hilt sticking out of his tunic, and for the length of time it took to blink in surprise, he wondered where the blade of the knife could be. But then the wave of red spreading alarmingly fast from the weapon answered the unspoken question.

_Oh._

Then the pain was intensifying exponentially, and there was not enough air in the noise-filled room to come to the aid of his desperate gasps. He was already shuddering with the cold that he hadn't noticed beginning to steal over his limbs, as if he was sinking, naked, into a hole he has created in a frozen lake; the icy water creeping up and up towards his shock-stiffened face, while a horrible warm wetness leaked out of him.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he could hear someone shouting orders, in a frantic, higher-pitched-than-normal voice, while someone else - closer to him - called his name; asking him to do something. He was not sure what. But the thundering 'da-dum da-dum da-dum', which was gaining momentum and volume, reduced all those external sounds to a dull buzz in his ears.

And he was the King, damn it, and if he wanted to allow the dark that was sliding over his eyes to draw him into the sleep he craved, and his head to nestle further into the comforting arms that cradled it, then that was what he would bloody well do!

And the small, still-a-child voice, in the last part of his brain to remain lit, while the rest dulled into blackness, said sulkily:

_Where's that Idiot when I need him?_


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: Thank you again one and all for your heart-warming words of kindness and support. I've said this so many times before, but they really do keep my creative light burning. In fact thank you to anyone who has followed, favourited or simply read this fic as well...you people are all awesome and I hope you enjoy chapter 23. Nearly there now :O)**

**Disclaimer: The only Merlin I own is currently curled up in my lap, waiting for me to finish posting this so I can feed him another sachet of Whiskas. The other one is someone else's.**

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**Chapter 23**

_Oh Gods what have I done? What _have_ I done? WHAT. HAVE. I. DONE! Everyone's afraid of me. Look at him; drinks-ten-tankards-and-still-walks-home Gwaine is scared of me. The way he's looking at me, when he thinks I'm actually reading this book; tensing his jaw and clenching his fists, like he's preparing to stop me from hitting him again._

_I don't know what came over me. He was just talking. Just talk, nothing but talk...mindless, same-old-tavern-tales and are-you-sure-you're-alright-'cause-you-look-a-bit-peaky-mate talk. Usual Gwaine banter; nothing out of the ordinary. It's no different to a thousand other conversations I've had before. Well Gwaine-a-logues, let's face it; I wasn't exactly in the mood to talk, was I? Or to listen for that matter. But who can blame me? He won't shut up! All the shit he comes out with - all that hot air and filthy innuendoes, and...and bollocks I don't need to know. And for what? Nothing! It's all meaningless farce. Doesn't serve a purpose. It's not going to change anything. Just wasted breath. Well, at least me hitting him as had one positive side effect: he's not even talking to me now. Too scared he'll set me off again, I suppose. Huh, maybe I _should_ hit him and the others more often, if it gets them to shut up! Nothing they say helps, anyway. _If_ they even mean anything they say, and aren't just trying to keep the dangerous sorcerer peaceful by making him believe that they care. But I know. I can tell. It's plain as day: they all hate me._

_They look at me like I'm going to shoot lightning bolts from my eyes if they say one thing wrong. So they act like nothing's happened and life just goes on and somehow - _somehow_ - everything's going to be alright. But none of them understand what it's like to be me; to know how I feel. They come here, one after another; never giving me a moment's peace and then they talk and talk and talk. But talking doesn't help. It just makes my head feel like it's going to explode if I have to hear one more word of sympathy or gossip; makes me want to take this book and whack someone's head with it hard. Theirs or mine, doesn't matter which...so long as I don't have to listen to them anymore. Arrrghhhh!_

_No! Stop pulling your hair! He's watching you now. Gwaine thinks I don't notice things, because I'm just a good-for-nothing servant, but I've seen the disgust for me in his eyes; the disdain. And so it should be. I'm a violent criminal who shouts at and hits his friends for no good reason. They should fear and hate me. I did all those things...me me ME!_

Merlin pulled his hands out of his unkempt hair and pushed them back down to the table. Sections of it were starting to feel thinner than normal, where he had torn whole clumps out without realising what he was doing; in those brief moments when he was lost inside and had trouble finding his way back out again. He knew that if he carried on much longer, others would notice, and there would be questions asked he had no desire to answer, but he had little else at his disposal on which to release the darkness clawing his insides. If he smashed his way through Gaius' bottles and vials, as he had been tempted to do on several occasions, his mentor would soon have nothing left to store the treatments for his patients. Which would then result in either their loss - when Gaius had nothing to give them for their ailments - or the physician's, when he spent every coin he earned replacing his equipment. Merlin didn't want to see his guardian go without food, clothing and firewood just because - like any good physician - he put his patients' needs above his own.

He stiffened his fingers around the corners of the book he wasn't even pretending to read anymore, in the hope that it would prevent them from drifting up to his head again. But then he had to make a conscious effort to stop doing that too. It wouldn't do to break the spines and tear the pages out of Gaius' books. Though Merlin might get a momentary sense of satisfaction, when it faded, the physician would be missing a book. Where would he be if it was that particular one he needed to cure an outbreak of something deadly in the lower town or to identify a creature of dark magic to know its weaknesses? How many would die because the selfish sorcerer couldn't handle staying in his room; listening to meaningless conversation and putting up with a bit of discomfort?

_Gaius has sacrificed enough for me. He welcomed me into his home, then gave me a bed, a job, and a magic book. He's treated me like his own son, and look how I've repaid him. He must be so disappointed in me; so glad I'm not an actual blood relative. He looks at me with such sadness; so much shame. Probably can't wait to be rid of me._

_Selfish, stupid, useless Merlin! People always end up paying the price because of you. Look what I did to Gwaine's face, because I lost control. He only asked me if I wanted to try his pie. But how many times can a man say "No thank you" before they finally accept that I really AM NOT HUNGRY! Yeah sure the pie was probably lovely; Lia made it...or was it Dendra? Huh, could have been any one of the dozen or so girls in the kitchens who have a soft spot for Gwaine! And yes, she - whoever it was - _is_ a good cook. But how can I eat anything when I feel so flippin sick? Thanks to this bloody headache that not even Gaius' most Gods-awful extract of yuck can cure._

_Bloody Gwen and her stupid bloody suggestions she can go stick up her - _

_No, don't keep doing that; he's still watching you! Probably thinks it's only a matter of time before his other eye's black too. Stupid sod! If he stops trying to make me eat, why would I? At least he hasn't brought any food with him today; not even one of his ubiquitous apples. Swallowing some of that gunge Gaius likes to call 'porridge' in the morning is hard enough...to say nothing of the cat vomit he passes off as leek and potato soup. Gods, if I have to swallow anymore of my own bile, my throat is going to burn worse than my ruddy skin does. And that stinking bloody stuff Gaius made me put on my wrists is doing sod all. Still itches like hell._

_Gwaine must be too mad to talk to me anyway; having to waste time babysitting me, while his real friends are enjoying themselves at the feast. He's only pretending to be my friend because he's afraid of me...wondering if these manacles are really holding my magic back. I bet he knows what I am by now. He doesn't say anything, but it's as clear as day on his face: the fear, anger, and betrayal he feels. I've seen him clenching his own fists and grinding his teeth, as if he's only just able to stop himself from knocking me senseless and dragging me back to the dungeon, or killing me right here and now. Arthur probably ordered him not to; wants the pleasure of doing that himself. _He_ hates me so much, he can't even bear to be in the same room as me anymore; not even to tell me how I'm to be executed and when._

_Oh Gods, I hope it's a beheading, or even a hanging; anything but the fire. Something quick and less of a spectacle. I've made myself enough of one of those already. Stupid, stupid Merlin...can't even kill yourself right. Twice! You bloody fucking idiot. Had to go and be all melodramatic and do it on the roof, where anyone could find you. And when that didn't work, did I stick a blade in my heart and be done with it? No! I waltzed out to some bloody lake so I could do it near my long-dead love._

_Huh! What would Freya think of me now? Would she honestly still be with a monster like me if she was alive today? She would have found some big, rough, tough save-the-world kind of guy to look after her; much better than I ever could. She might even be alive if someone else had helped her, rather than me. I couldn't even cure her of her curse, or stop her from getting stabbed or heal her wound. Huh! Some bloody legendary warlock I turned out to be! No fucking use whatsoever! And all so I could keep it a secret from Uther or Arthur or whoever. Fat bloody lot of good that did! He found out anyway. Because I'm so useless at keeping secrets. Gaius warned me, my mother warned me, hell, even Kilgharrah warned me. But I was too stupid to listen and now Arthur knows, so he's going to execute me._

_Why doesn't he hurry up and get it over with? Be done with it now, Arthur! Release me, and I won't have to put up with my skin feeling like it's rusting and my stomach is trying to turn inside out. Maybe I should take a long walk over my windowsill tonight? Might not be so bad? Not as bad as burning anyway. Okay, I might not die straight away...might take a little while. But there's always the chance I could break my neck. Perhaps if I went head first, that would help? But then I'll be sure to fuck that up as well, like everything else. I'd probably end up paralysed and unable to try again. I'll be stuck inside this Gods-forsaken body with people having to do everything for me. Or until Arthur pulls his finger out and gets rid of me. On the plus side though, if I _am_ paralysed, I might not feel the flames before I get the chance to suffocate._

_Guess it was inevitable from day one; the first time I set foot in this city. It's not like I wasn't warned - after that execution I saw. My own bloody fault for ignoring it and staying, and then trying to fix everyone's problems when I should have accepted long ago I had no right interfering and no good would ever come of it. Arthur's right - I'm not a knight, or even a warrior. Just an insolent peasant who never learned his place, and kept trying to deny he had no future; that he couldn't fight fate._

_Well I welcome it now, Arthur - wherever you are and whatever you're doing. You can get your royal backside over here now and put me out of my misery. Stringing me along like this is doing neither of us any good. Uther would never have done so. I would have been dead the second he found out what I am. Why did you have to be so damn noble? Why do you always have to try and understand; to know the full story? It's not like it'll make any difference in the end. Eventually you'll come to the same conclusion he would have done. For the good of yourself and your people, you have to rid yourself of this freak of nature. Otherwise, how will you and they ever feel safe? How can you be sure I won't turn on you, like Morgana did; like Agravaine's doing?_

_It's your only choice, so there's no need to feel guilty about it. You are the King now, and you have to do your duty; uphold the law. Vanquish your foes. Don't worry, I won't retaliate, or try to stop you; why would I, when I agree with you? Besides, I can't do anything with these things on my wrists? Good call...good call; yes, you did the right thing. It's for the greater good. It's only skin. It'll grow back...well, perhaps it doesn't matter if it doesn't, since I won't be needing skin where I'm going. If you would only get your bloody arse down here and - _

The warning bells started to ring. As in all things of an emergency nature, the previous animosity (or thoughts to that effect) of the two men were instantly forgotten when they looked up from their tasks and at each other; a mixture of curiosity and dread plastered on their faces.

Before either could voice mutual feelings, the sounds of shouting and booted feet grew rapidly, from a distant buzz (barely heard beneath the continuous peal of bells) to a thundering clamour, as whoever made the noise climbed the physician's tower. Just as Merlin and Gwaine looked in the direction of the door - pondering the likelihood of a coincidence between the bells and urgently moving bodies (for it was obvious there was more than one person approaching) - it flew open; sufficiently hard and fast to knock down the broom that was leaning against the wall next to it. The resultant bang when it hit the floor only added to the cacophony of sound that exploded through the opening.

Gwaine had barely enough time to rise to his feet and place his hand on his sword, in readiness to defend himself and his charge from whatever had disagreed with the door's 'closed' status, when a wall of muscle and sweat entered the room. In a flurry of red cloaks and curses and shouts to put 'him' (whoever 'he' was) on the patient's bed, Elyan and Percival staggered to the middle of the room; carrying something or someone between them. Gaius, who had shouted the last order, followed after; with Leon and then George, who shut the door behind him. Though they could tell by then that the knights had brought in someone who required emergency medical attention, from their positions neither Gwaine nor Merlin could see who it was that now laid on the cot, surrounded by a red, dragon-embroidered curtain. But from the serious, pinched faces that looked down at the bed-dweller, they could tell that it was someone who meant something to the knights, and even to the King's replacement manservant, who hung a few paces behind the higher-ranking men; not wishing to get in the way, but unwilling to leave and therefore not know what happened and be of no use.

Gwaine was the first to reach his friends' sides, and the gasp as he looked down at what they regarded spurred Merlin to take his hesitant steps towards the cot more quickly, until he also drew level with the others. When he shared their view, the breath stuttered to a halt in his throat, and something that coagulated and hardened there threatened to prevent the air from escaping again.

After a second or two of swallowing - or trying to, when there was no moisture in his mouth to be found - he managed to half-gasp, half-choke the name of the person he had so wanted to see and now cursed himself and the Gods for granting his wish.

"Arthur!"

He knew that he should be doing something - anything! - to help the man before him, because he had been trained for many years now by the best physician in the five kingdoms. And because he knew that all the crimson he could see on the man's tunic had nothing to do with George's choice in attire for the King's evening entertainment, nor wine spilt by a drunken or clumsy hand. But all he could do was gape - with wide eyes, clattering heart, tightening stomach and skin prickling even more than usual - as his King, judge, jailer, master and friend lay so still and silent beside him. And the terrible redness continued to flow away from where it belonged; away from the foreign object that stood proud on the King's barely moving chest, like a flag placed by an explorer who had claimed newly discovered land for himself.

Merlin's legs suddenly felt like the blood flowing through them had putrefied, and with his breath coming faster and faster he sank to his knees at the head of the cot. He raised trembling white hands to hover for a moment either side of his master's face, as he took in the paler-than-milk flesh and sheen of cold sweat that were the classic signs to a physician's apprentice of a heart working desperately to keep the body warm and prevent asphyxiation with what little of its life-giving fluid remained. Eventually, Merlin managed to convince two stubbornly stiff and spastic fingers to bend and press at the appropriate point on Arthur's neck, and he held them there; willing his own pulse to calm so that he could feel for the vital signs that there was still hope. And there was, but the pulse he found was thready and weakening and made Merlin want to force his own heart into the other's body; beat for him, sustain him.

"Out of my way! Percival, move!" Gaius barked with uncustomary abruptness, as he bustled over from the other side of the room and shouldered his way through the wall of red cloaks. His arms overflowed with clean linen strips, jars of ointment and bottles of potions, some of which escaped his clutches to fall to the bed, before he could place the remaining items on the table beside the cot. Raising a slightly palsied hand, the old man pressed the rag it clutched to the area immediately surrounding the weapon in the King's chest.

Without looking up, he said tersely, "Elyan: water, from the well. Percival: hold this. Press it tight, but do not dislodge the knife." The two men didn't hesitate to obey; Elyan dashing for the door (grabbing the empty bucket from atop a stool on his way) while Percival squatted and squashed the rapidly soaking cloth against the chest of his King and friend. Meanwhile, Gaius' hands were moving as if under a spell, as they mixed together herbs and ointments in the small, clay bowl his knees cradled, and then began smearing them on a wide strip of cloth.

He glanced to the crestfallen face of the man at the head of the bed, who would normally be rushing around; gathering supplies and handing him tools, but who now appeared to have turned into an ice sculpture.

_I failed him. Again. He needed me and I wasn't there. Because of my selfishness, he was hurt and might never open his eyes again. When I do something, I fail, and when I do nothing, the result is the same. My very existence is like a poison in the veins of this kingdom._

_I warned him; told him of the consequence of him knowing my magic and allowing me to live, but he wouldn't listen. You stupid, bloody, arrogant prat! Why do you never listen to me? I _know_ what I'm talking about. It happened before and it will keep on happening unless you put a stop to it. I told you that! But of course, I'm just an ignorant farm boy who knows nothing compared to a king. How can I possibly be right about something that you didn't see?_

Merlin didn't register the call of his own name until Gaius had said it a third time, and loud enough to practically drown out the still-ringing bells. He looked up at his mentor and saw the same fear and anguish he felt reflected in the pale, wrinkled face; only vaguely disguised by his thin mask of professionalism.

"Merlin," his mentor repeated, in a much quieter and slightly wavering voice, as if without the volume it lost its strength. "Scissors." At his ward's continued hesitation, Gaius said, more forcefully, "Now, Merlin!"

It only took another handful of his own rapid heartbeats, when comprehension blanketed the raging fire of his inner turmoil, before Merlin managed to put weight back onto wobbling legs and lurch away from the bed in a flurry of gangling limbs. On the other side of the room, he yanked open the drawer; making an uncommonly loud noise in the tense quiet of the room, as the metal instruments inside rattled against each other. He fumbled with shaking hands through the tangled mass of iron and steel, his lungs and heart still working uncomfortably fast, until he managed to grasp the required item; hardly noticing when one of the scissors' blades nicked the skin of his palm. He rushed back to the cot and thrust the scissors at arm's length towards the physician.

Instead of taking them, Gaius flicked his chin towards the bed's occupant and commanded, "Cut his tunic off; I need to slow down the blood loss before I can remove the knife."

Merlin only just managed to still his hands to cut through the fabric; the honed edges snagging on the sopping mess that clung to the king's chest like a second skin. Eventually, he was able to sweep it aside to expose ashen flesh, smeared in too much redness; like it had been used as a canvas for a child's unwanted tomato soup. Merlin could not be sure if the acid rising in his throat was as a result of the unrelenting headache that had chosen that moment to remind him of its presence, or the sight of this constantly active man lying so abominably still and losing the contents of his veins ludicrously fast.

Gaius leaned forwards, and nudging Percival's hand out the way, removed the dripping, red rag; straight away replacing it with the poultice he had put together. He pressed the blood-clotting and pain-numbing ingredients into the open flesh around the blade, then in one swift, practiced move, he used his other hand to pull the knife free and hold it aloft for the first volunteer to take it from him. Leon's hand whipped out, and his eyes flicked between his sovereign's face for signs of change and the weapon he turned over and over; searching for markings or any other clue as to the thing's origin. The fact that there had been no reaction to its removal from the victim brought a further tightening in the guts of those who watched or worked.

"Will he be alright?" Gwaine put words to the thought all held like a burning torch at the front of their minds, his voice low and throaty, as he stared at the poultice-soaked cloth that Gaius was pressing hard into the wound. The green stains made by the herbs' juices were already changing to ruddy brown, as the cloth took up what Arthur's body lost.

The physician opened his mouth to answer, but he was interrupted by the door banging open as Elyan entered. The bucket he had filled a little too full in his panic and haste slopped small puddles of water on the floor, as he swung round to close the door again behind him. He placed the container on the table by Gaius, creating a small lake with a bucket-shaped island at its centre, and then came to a stop by the cot again, in the space Percival made for him.

"Gaius?" Gwaine prompted, turning his head to look at the old man, who wouldn't meet his or any of the other eyes that hunted him with undisguised hope.

The physician pursed his lips sufficiently to make the colour in them go elsewhere. He lifted the cloth and frowned down at the blood that began to flood forth fast again, as if by his indignation alone he could make it stop where the pressure of his hand had failed. Grabbing another rag from the table at his side, he replaced the one he'd just taken away and sighing heavily, said, "It's too early to say. The wound is deep, and I can't tell yet whether any of his organs have been pierced."

Feet shuffled and heavy exhalations were made at the less than positive news none had wished to hear.

"What can we do to help, Gaius?" Leon asked, his tone desperate and eager for a role that in some way would stop the next update of his friend's health being even more negative.

Gaius looked up at him and tried for a grim smile at the offer, though it came out as more of a resigned grimace. "Nothing more than quiet and room to work, I'm afraid," he said; his gaze and hands immediately returning to his ministrations.

"I should go and find Gwen, before she hears of this from someone else," Elyan said quietly, his voice laced with dread for the conversation he did not relish having with his sister, and taking a step back, he walked towards the door. Pausing in front of it, he turned back to the bedside crowd. "Gaius, you will -"

"Yes, don't worry, Elyan," Gaius cut in, a small but apparent note of impatience giving his words more bite than usual, "I will keep you all informed of the King's condition."

Elyan raised his mouth in an attempt at a grateful smile, and since he found his lips unable to comply, he nodded and left.

"I must find Lord Agravaine, and check how the search is going," Leon said, placing the knife he held on the table behind him, but then his eyes travelled over to Merlin, who had raised his head at the mention of Arthur's uncle. Leon hastily gathered the weapon up again and inserted it into his belt instead. Merlin blushed and turned his head away; knowing full well the meaning behind the knight's actions, and avoiding his and anyone else's gaze.

"Search?" Gwaine queried, as Leon too turned to leave. The first knight's eyes showed the inner war that waged between duty and friendship, though in the end - as was ever the case with Leon the Brave, the Loyal, the Stalwart - duty won. He had accepted the fact the rest of them still struggled to do: they had to leave the King to his fate and the capable hands of the only physician who had a chance - if indeed there was one - of saving his life.

The curly-haired knight halted and looked back to him, a small frown playing on his forehead at the delay. "For the assassin," he replied.

"You mean you didn't catch him?" Gwaine said, a deeper frown on his own head, and his voice raised as he turned fully towards the taller knight; all antagonism with Arthur forgotten and replaced with outrage. Though whether it was for the knights - who had been present and failed to do their job of protecting or avenging the King - or for the assassin himself, was not clear. At Leon's head-shake and eyes slightly downcast in shame, Gwaine clutched his sword pommel in a white-knuckled grip. "Then what have you all been standing around like gossiping maids for? Go find the bastard!"

Percival smirked before he too headed for the door, but on seeing that the long-haired knight was not joining him and Leon, he stopped and asked, "You coming, Gwaine?"

Gwaine glared at him pointedly and then rolled his eyes over towards Merlin, while tilting his head in the same direction. Comprehension dawned on Percival and Leon's faces after a second or two, and with nods of understanding, they walked the rest of the way out the door.

"George."

At the bearded knight's call, the servant, whose presence (as with any of his ilk worth their salt) had been forgotten, halted his silent pursuit of the other knights and turned towards Gwaine.

"Sir?" he said, with a bow of deference.

"Go and find every key in the King's chambers - and I mean _every_ last one; I'm sure you know by now where he keeps them all - and bring them back here."

"But sir..." the normally dull-faced man was positively animated by the conflict the command had raised in him, as he glanced between the frowning knight and the supine King. His naturally servile tendencies wanted to jump to it and fulfil a noble's order, while his loyalty to his master dictated that he should do no such thing behind the man's back; and certainly not when he was so incapacitated.

But all it took was a loud growl of "Now, George!" from the suddenly scary-looking man for the servant to bow hastily and his feet to rush out the exit he had been heading for.

Gaius and Gwaine exchanged a long look; an array of emotions passing between them, before the physician nodded his understanding, and turning to his shell-shocked ward, he said gently, "Merlin?"

After a moment, he was met by Merlin's wide and watery eyes, and he swallowed at the lump in his throat that swelled anew with the pain his ward suffered at the sight of his so badly hurt friend; almost baulking from the news he was about to deliver.

"The King is dying, my boy," he said, his voice hoarse with anguish, but as steady as his eyes were on the man staring back at him; pleading silently with his mentor to deny the truth of his words. Unable to look any longer into a soul that was about to disintegrate at the thought of losing its mate, Gaius grimaced and looked down at his patient, who in the short time he had been in his care, had managed to lose even more colour from his skin and whose breathing was beginning to sound ragged and effortful. "His lung has been perforated," he said. "There's nothing more I can do for him."

Merlin's eyes - at first wrinkled with confusion - suddenly widened with comprehension and fear. "W-what are you talking about, Gaius?" he began, taking a step back and then slowly slewing his head from side to side. "No, no, no you _have_ to save him, Gaius! You have to! He...he can't die: he's the once and future King. It's my destiny to-"

But was it? Did he even _have_ a destiny anymore? Arthur would never - _could_ never - trust him. And without trust, their friendship was for nothing.

_I've killed him by destroying that trust, as surely as if I had thrust that knife into his chest myself. This was all my doing - my mistake - and like all the other ones I've made, any attempt to correct them just ends up making things worse._

Gaius had taken a couple of steps towards his ward, his arms raised in a gesture of placation, but then he stopped, realising that the movement could be misinterpreted - in the young man's fragile mental state - as a threat to his freedom. "No, Merlin, there is nothing more that_ I_ can do for him. Because it is _you_ the King needs now. Only you can save him."

Merlin clung to the table behind him that he had backed himself into, as if without it he would fall to the ground. His eyes sought his dying friend, as he checked for himself the signs he had already - subconsciously - picked up on, before his mentor had confirmed them. The shallow and laboured breathing, pale, sweaty skin and blue-tinged lips; not to mention the fact that despite the poultice and pressure applied to it, the hole in his chest still spewed forth red, some of which was in the form of bubbles, as air escaped from the wrong orifice. He shook his head again in denial.

"But I...how can I..." He brought his hands up from behind him and held them palm side up. Sweaty, trembling flesh stared back at him, and his eyes wandered further down, to his wrists; where metal encircled them in a nest of flaky, weeping skin.

He couldn't suppress a shudder at the thought of the last time he had accessed his magic. He had been half asleep and did it without thinking, as he reached for his boots; flung across the room in a fit of pique after a particularly arduous 'comfort talk' from Gaius the night before. Not wanting to place his still-waking feet on the cold floor in order to get to his boots, he had stretched out his palm and instinctively reached for them in the way he had been doing since birth, when objects were out of his reach. Immediately, he had been engulfed in the now-familiar burning, rending, piercing sensation; like his blood had been replaced by tiny shards of lit charcoal, bringing pain and overbearing heat as they coursed through his veins. It had taken a full ten minutes of rolling around on the floor - his shaking arms clutching at his knees and abdomen - until the fire had died down and the miniature knives were sheathed; allowing him to force his quaking legs to carry him to his footwear the conventional way.

It was an experience he was in no hurry to repeat.

But if Gaius was right - and Merlin would have to think long and hard to recall a time when his mentor wasn't - then his King needed him. Destiny or not, it was every citizen's duty to put their life before their King. And his life – pathetic and flawed though it was - could maybe still serve this one, last purpose. Even if he tried and failed. Even if he died in the attempt. He would be no worse off than if he sat there, watching the man's breaths become shallower and further apart, until his heart no longer had the strength to carry on beating. And even if by some miracle he did succeed, but the once-again-healthy King did not let the benevolent act sway his decision to execute or banish his ex-servant.

_I have to try, one more time. For Arthur. Even if he will hate me regardless._

Merlin shuffled forwards and reached out hesitantly, as if by doing so he could evade the beast inside him that was waiting to lash out. He sunk to his knees beside his King, placed his hands on either side of the gaping wound and closed his eyes.

Realising what his ward was about to do, Gaius leapt forwards, his whole body beseeching him to cease, crying, "No, Merlin, not yet! George is bringing the key. Just wait a -"

But Merlin pushed the words of warning and appeal out of his mind, taking it into the relaxed state of concentration required to use his gift to heal. With very little conscious effort, he extracted the spell from his memory.

"Ic þe þurhhæle þin licsare."

Merlin didn't even have the time to take a full breath, after he felt his eyes burn gold, before the all encompassing pain hit him, like a tidal wave of lava and rocks. He was barely aware of his surroundings as he rode the volcanic storm and waited for it to recede; vaguely aware that the scream that rattled in his ears and throbbing head had originated from his own larynx.

"-lin? Merlin! Are you alright? Can you hear me, my boy?"

His mentor's frantic cries sluiced through his awareness, just as the dark, hot haze that had been all he could see and feel was beginning to dissipate. Merlin panicked for a moment, when he realised that he still couldn't see, until it dawned on him that his eyes were squeezed tightly shut. Slowly allowing the pulses of pain in his head to come to a stop - or at least, until he was accustomed to them enough to not make them his main focus - he opened his eyes. The two blurry shapes dominating his vision gradually warped and sharpened, until he found himself staring into the blanched, concerned faces of two long-haired men; one bearded, one not.

"Are you alright, mate? Are you back with us?"

Though Merlin heard Gwaine's words, he was unable to put them in context for a minute or two. But then he remembered where he was and what he'd been doing and he let out a soft groan of self-reproof; rubbing at the lingering ache in his temples. Ignoring the physician's repeat of his scruffy friend's enquiry, Merlin's eyes wandered over to the cot, and a jolt went through him - as if his employer had used his favourite method of rousing his employee (involving a bucket and some ice-cold water) - causing him to recall who was lying on the cot and why.

Merlin sucked in a whooping lungful of air, his eyes thrown wide open in abrupt fear that he had been passed out too long to be of anymore use, and struggled shakily to his feet. He pushed roughly past the protesting arms and voices of the two other conscious people in the room and staggered - like an hour-old fawn learning to walk - back to his master's side.

Rather than waste time asking after the man's condition, or how long he had been rolling on the floor while the King had continued to deteriorate, Merlin decided to make his own diagnosis, and fumbled for Arthur's jugular vein. He breathed a small sigh of relief when he felt the pressure against his digits; far too weak and fast for his liking - more like the paws of a rat as it fled a fiery ship than the steady clop of a trotting horse - but at least it was still there. He had time to try again, though he knew that if he tried to heal the King the same way, he'd only end up screaming in agony and cleaning Gaius' floor with the back of his tunic.

No, there had to be another option, if he was to have even the slightest chance of success; and he feared that if he complied with Gaius and Gwaine's requests to wait for George to return with the key for the devices, it would be too late. If Kilgharrah's faith in him as the greatest warlock that ever lived was to ever be proven true, then there was no better time to do so. If there was any modicum of truth in the prophecies, if he really was as powerful as the Druids regarded him to be, then no magic-suppressing manacles were going to prevent him from stopping his King's life slipping away. He just had to find a way around them; sneak past in some way. He'd certainly had plenty of practice at sneaking over the years, during his many self-imposed missions to meddle in others' affairs around the castle. Only this time, he wasn't drawing on his magic to create a diversion so that he could evade a couple of guards patrolling the courtyard. He had to sneak his magic past something that made Aredian's magic-detecting abilities look like a blind mouse seeking cheese, with no arms, legs or sense of smell.

How could he even do that? How could he use something that to him was like walking or breathing, but without moving his limbs or inflating his lungs?

_Gods only know, but I have to try._

Reaching out once more, Merlin placed his hands on Arthur's chest, and trying not to flinch at the feel of the stuttering muscles and liquid-stooped breaths beneath, he delved deep down into the golden core at the very centre of his soul. But where usually he would send in an outstretched hand to form a fist around the warm glow of energy that was his magic's heart - drawing on its power and then flinging it wildly out in the general direction he needed it to go (with the spill of words from his tongue or force of will alone) - this time he needed to be small and unnoticeable, even to himself.

Warily, as if approaching a wounded and much riled bear, he allowed a tiny filament of thought to waft forth, like a tendril of smoke from a taper that had just been extinguished. On some level of consciousness, he was aware of a hand landing on his shoulder, and a rough, scared voice in his ear, trying to pull him away from the task he had set himself, but with an animalistic growl he shrugged it off and guided the tiny tendril of magic down, down past his shoulders, through his arms and finally his hands, before he let it sink - like a trickle of ink on parchment - into the man beneath his hands. He gave the thread no command or direction. Merely a feeling, a notion: to seek out the hurt that lay at its destination and undo it; mend what was torn and staunch what was flowing unhindered. Maybe if he could just apply his will alone, without its golden, illegal passenger, he could still make some difference. Perhaps just enough so that Arthur's life was no longer at risk and Gaius could continue treating him using more scientific methods.

At first, it did seem to be working. He could feel warmth there, a soft glimmer; like a candle that had been lit and placed behind a boulder in a vast underground cavern. And there was no pain; no backlash to make him extinguish the light before it could do its job. But it was too small and weak, and he knew he had to feed it some more of his inner energy; make it shine brighter. It was as he felt the energy grow, as imperceptibly as he could manage it, that he started to become aware of the all too familiar itching and burning. It was not enough at first to do more than scratch at his nerves, like the soft claws of a young kitten, but as he allowed his tendril of influence to increase little by little, so did the pain. What had started out as a mild discomfort he needn't concentrate too hard to ignore, all too quickly built up, as if one log after another had been added to the smouldering embers of a fire, and before he knew it, there was a roaring blaze he could no longer dismiss as an irritation.

At first Merlin felt only the trembling in his hands worsen, but soon this travelled up his arms and down his torso to his legs until he could feel his toes curling in his boots, as the agony magnified. Even his hair felt as if it was trying to tear itself from his scalp, and he was sure that everyone in the room must be able to hear his nerves roaring and buzzing, as the inferno raged and what seemed like a hive of bees swarmed and stung him all over; trying to force themselves out of his body, where it was cooler and less threatening.

He clenched his teeth hard enough to crack diamonds, and could almost feel his brain rattling inside his cranium with the juddering of his head as he tried so hard to contain the scream that was swelling to unparalleled proportions in his throat; the sweat streaming off his brow and dripping down his face. He knew his vision would have been obscured, had he the ability to keep his eyes open, but they were as tightly clenched shut as every other orifice in his complaining, taut-as-a-bowstring body.

His hearing was starting to dim, though not enough to prevent him from hearing his own voice as it was sent out in a loud, primal release of the agony he felt throughout his whole being, when he felt strong arms lock round him from behind and tighten as they pulled him back; away from the one he was focused so hard on he had excluded everything else from his consciousness. And suddenly he was sitting on the floor, breathing hard and fast and trying to blink away the drops of sweat from his heavy eyelids; the arms still surrounding him, though now more in comfort and a lending of strength than as a wrench from his hopeless cause.

"You can be really dense sometimes, mate, you know that?" The habitual drollness of the rough, low voice close to his ear barely masked the emotional and physical strain beneath. Gwaine held onto him with enough firmness to tell Merlin that he was in no way going to let him repeat his foolish act, but with an uncertainty arising from fear of causing him more pain than he had already caused himself.

Merlin wanted to shrug him off, to leap up and scream to all present that they didn't understand, that he had to do this...for his King. Even if it hurt more than being trampled by a herd of horses and then having them tied to his limbs to tear them in four directions from his torso. Even if it meant his own end; they had no right interfering, or telling him what to do. But at that moment, it was all he could do to try and regulate his breathing and quell the lingering pain that clawed various parts of his body every few seconds. The headache too had intensified with his mounting weariness and he was finding it quite a task focusing on remaining upright, never mind getting back on his feet or giving a scathing retort.

The clatter of several small metal items hitting stone made Merlin jump and drag his head towards the sound. He blinked several times to accustom his eyes to the candlelight, without it sending fistfuls of gimlets straight to the centre of his brain, before the shapes in front of him sharpened into the familiar furnishings of Gaius' room. But it was the unmoving figure stood just in front of the closed door - his eyes wide with shock and feet surrounded by a vast array of keys (some linked on large metal rings and others left solo) - that blew away the last wisps of fog in Merlin's pain addled mind; replacing it with a heart-gripping panic. Whether it was shock or fear that caused George to cover his mouth and not move a step further into the room he had entered with such efficiency no-one had known he was there, mattered very little to Merlin. The other manservant had seen him doing - or at least attempting to do - magic, and Merlin could do nothing to suppress the shame that made him close his eyes and turn his head away.

The next moment, the arms that surrounded him and their body's heat left him, as Gwaine leapt to his feet and strode purposefully across the room. Without a word, Gwaine crouched down and began gathering up the keys George had dropped, on realising what was happening in the Physician's quarters and under the King's - albeit unconscious - nose.

With the floor cleared and his hands filled, the knight rose back up and glared sternly into the eyes of the dumbstruck man.

"Speak of this to anyone, and the only thing you'll be able to polish with will be your tongue, as I'll feed your hands to the dogs." When George did nothing but stare gape-mouthed in horror at the bristle-faced knight, Gwaine closed what remained of the gap between them, so that their noses almost touched, and raising an eyebrow challengingly, he added, "Understand, brownie?"

The servant cringed back a few inches, let out a very unmanly squeak and nodded his head vigorously. No more than a second after the knight's suggestive head flick in the direction of the door, George had scurried through and closed it behind him.

Gwaine sniffed loudly at the back of the door and flicked his fringe out of his face before turning to face the rest of the room. With a hint of his usual sarcastic indifference, he muttered "Piece of cake. Dunno why the Princess has such a problem with the little guy!" Then he strode quickly back over to the bed, where Gaius was sat; checking Arthur's vital signs and seeing to the few needs he was still able to meet.

"Do you know which one it is, Gaius?"

The physician looked up to see the knight leaning over him; the keys splayed out across his palms like ill-begotten spoils of war. Indeed knowing that one of the keys present was associated with the devices that had caused his friend harm - and could inadvertently mean the death of the King (even though the prat had been the one to put them where they were) - gave Gwaine a look on his face like he held the entrails of a recently gutted pig; still warm, pulsing and containing the animal's last, semi-digested meal. If it was not for his urgent need to remove the shackles from Merlin's wrists, he would rather have flung the keys to the furthest corners of the room than have to so much as touch anything wrought with such sickening intent.

Gaius shook his head slowly, and with a sad purse of his lips as he glanced over at his ward, who still sat on the floor, looking mournfully at his hands. "I'm afraid not. But you'd better find it quickly, before-" He cut himself off at a sudden hitch in Arthur's breath, and six eyes were instantly drawn to the King's face for the signs of change his altered breathing pattern hinted at.

Merlin struggled to his feet, using the leg and edge of the table beside him as a lever, and gingerly moved over to join the other two. Once he reached the side of the cot, he dropped down next to it, with a combination of dread and lack of strength to remain standing for too long without being overcome by vertigo. He watched Gaius' face, as the old man first grasped the King's limp wrist and then laid his ear to the bloodied chest. At the sight of the physician's whole face closing in resignation and ailing hope, Merlin felt his stomach gape open wide and his heart fall into it, then carry on descending to his feet.

"He's fading," came the cracked and unnecessary confirmation, and Merlin's hands flew to his mouth, a second too late to stifle the sob that slipped through his fingers; his eyes already beginning to water.

But then with a growl, that sounded more like a starving wolf about to tear into its prey than a human who until moments ago could hardly stand, Merlin threw aside his lingering fatigue, pain and despair and thrust his hands to his friend's chest once more. His mind grasped one at a time through every healing spell in his repertoire, desperately hoping that he only had to find the right one that was powerful enough or worded just so, as to be able to slip past the manacles' binding and bring succour to his King.

Each phrase incanted, and each pulse of gold through his irises brought forth a groan through gritted teeth, or a full-on, helpless, gasping yell, but he refused to acknowledge defeat. Even as he felt his left arm being grabbed in a vice-like grip and both felt and heard the teeth-curling scratch of metal on metal, as Gwaine frenetically worked his way through the numerous keys; with shaking hands and cries of "Hold on mate! Just give me a second to find the right one, damn it!" Even as Gaius, on the other side of the cot, begged him with a strained and tear-choked voice to "For pity's sake stop, Merlin; you're going to kill yourself!" he would not, and forced more magic-induced words past dry, chapped, and badly-chewed lips. Even as he felt the slow trickle of something warm drip from his nose and tasted iron as it curved its way into his mouth. Even as the room around him began to grow hazy and sway a little in time to his dwindling energy and his King's shallow, slow breaths, he squeezed out the husky whisper of the old religion in pant after pained pant.

Then just as Gwaine was beginning to mutter expletives under his breath that would make a sailor blush, about a certain brass-obsessed servant who was going to get treasured parts of his anatomy fed to the hounds along with his hands (for bringing every key in the kingdom - including the one to his bloody own sister's chastity belt - except the one they actually needed) when there was a melodious-sounding 'click' and triumphant hiss of "Yes!" from the key's turner.

A moment later, Merlin felt a shockwave run through his body. Pausing in his spell-casting, he opened his eyes and raised his wrists - from Gwaine's suddenly loosened grip and Arthur's chest - to look at the manacles; one still holding the small, plain silver key that the knight had matched to it. After spending so many days contemplating the unbroken smoothness of the devices on his wrists, the key stood out like a barnacle on the side of the metal band.

Before Merlin could spend more than a couple of heartbeats on noting the oddity of the shackles' appearance, he realised that they had begun to glow; only faintly at first, so that if he hadn't been looking at his wrists or the room was more brightly lit, he would most likely have missed the phenomenon. The glow rapidly grew however, until, with surprised and concerned gasps from both Gwaine and Gaius, it seemed as if Merlin was cradling two small moons at the end of his arms. With the increase in light had come a burning sensation - only of cold rather than heat - and it too had grown in intensity, until it felt to Merlin like his hands were being severed from his arms by a sheet of ice, and he could do nothing to stop a pained yell being torn from him.

"Merlin?"

"What is it?"

The two older men spoke simultaneously, and Gwaine reached across to grasp Merlin's arm, but on coming into contact with it - even though through his tunic - the bearded knight gave a gasp and whipped his hand away, as if he had touched a kettle that had been sitting over a fire for a while. He shook the offended limb and frowned at it for good measure, before moving his glare to the brightly-glowing manacles, seeming about to launch into a scathing rebuke, but what happened next drew him up short and made his mouth and eyes grow wide.

The manacles' radiance had begun to spread, down to Merlin's fingertips and up his arms, as if his clothes had been set alight. As the energy travelled up towards his torso, Merlin had scrambled to his feet, and taken a few steps back from the bed, as if afraid he had become the carrier of a deadly and highly contagious disease, and had to keep it from spreading to his companions. With the light's movement had come the most intense sensation of pins and needles he had ever felt in his life, but rather than gradually declining - as the condition associated with returning blood flow usually would - it increased. Merlin could feel his heart pick up speed as it rushed to pump adrenaline around his already exhausted and aching body, in order to deal with the new threat, and his breaths too sped up, until he was close to hyperventilating.

As the glow finally encompassed his whole body, Merlin suddenly threw his head back; his arms slightly raised at his sides, his eyes wide with shock and the air suspended in his chest at the sharp stab of cold that was squeezing every inch of his taut body. As if from the far side of a vast hall, Merlin faintly heard the distraught calls and queries after his health from Gaius and Gwaine, but he could not spare one iota of his concentration to even make sense of what they were saying, never mind formulate a reply. Then, with a final, agonising pulse that tore a deafening scream of pain from Merlin's lungs, the glow of light exploded outwards. Distantly, Merlin heard two dull thuds, though he had no time to contemplate what had caused them, as his body was suddenly released from its muscle tautening hold, and he collapsed to his hands and knees on the floor; his breath see-sawing loudly in his ears alongside the thunder of his galloping heartbeat.

Merlin couldn't be sure how long he crouched there with his head hanging between his shoulder blades, only a few inches from the floor, while he waited for his respiratory system to calm itself and allow his brain to contemplate anything more complicated than the inside of his eyelids. Finally, the sounds of his internal workings had quieted enough to allow him to hear what was going on around him, but it was the total absence of sound that actually drew a frown to his forehead and enticed his eyes to open. Merlin sat back on his heels and looked around him, blinking away the last of the negative imprints on his retinas that the blast of light had caused, when he caught sight of the first of the reasons for his sense of foreboding. On the floor, six feet away from him was a leather boot, and stretching out of the boot: a leg. Scrambling to his feet, using the new burst of energy provided by his growing sense of panic, Merlin took in the rest of Gwaine; lying unconscious on his side and with his head pressed against the legs of an overturned stool. Several feet away from the knight was Gaius; also sprawled on the floor and seemingly out for the count. From his position, Merlin could see no obvious signs of injury, other than the fact that neither of them was awake, and he surmised that the blast of energy he had felt leaving his body must have been vast enough to have thrown the two men back and connect vulnerable craniums to unyielding furniture and flagstones.

_Great_, he thought, with a heavy sigh, _it never rains but it pours! _And rubbing at the lingering buzz of the ache behind his forehead with the back of a slightly trembling hand, Merlin took a step towards his mentor when his foot came in contact with something hard that made a harsh scraping sound as it was nudged across the stone. He glanced down and then fully lowered the foot he had suspended, as he caught sight of the two metal objects that had been a permanent decoration on his arms for what had seemed weeks. Until that moment it hadn't occurred to him that they were no longer in place - so used was he to their presence - and he lifted his arms up to stare at his wrists, as if challenging irony for allowing there to be a second set of the horrible devices in the same room. Bare skin was all his eyes found; burnt, puffy, raw and - now he thought about it - very sore skin. But just skin.

Merlin's shoulders slumped, and he let out a long, slow breath of relief.

_I'm free! But does this mean that I can use my..._

Trust was something he'd had precious little reason to harbour in his life, therefore he took nothing for granted. Merlin closed his eyes and tentatively reached for the warm pool of vitality - that had been a part of him as far back as his conscious memories went - like a child calling out for the comfort of his mother's presence in a scary and unfamiliar place.

_Thank the Gods__! It's back!_

Like his wrists though, his magic had not returned unscathed. At his gentle calling, instead of a calm and smoothly flowing stream, he had been met by a roiling, churning mass that recoiled and hissed at his touch; frightened and angry and wanting nothing to do with anything that might hurt it again. After even such a relatively short time held in its cage, his magic was damaged and weak, and Merlin could only pray and send soothing thoughts to his sickly, pale golden core, that given time to rest and heal, it would return to the way it had been. Assuming of course that his magic _was_ all still there, and that the manacles hadn't simply drained it from him permanently, like a leech. Was that what that explosion of energy had been? Did the shackles, in a last act of defiance at being removed, tear his inner self away with them? Merlin shook his head in pleading denial. No, he had to believe that it was still there - all of it - but he made a mental note to ask Gaius about it later.

Sniffing loudly and then cringing at the acrid taste of blood at the back of his throat, Merlin wiped away the remains of the nose bleed from above his mouth with the cuff of his tunic; wrinkling his nose at the bright red stains he knew he'd have to try and scrub out at some point later. But just as he was about to carry on making his way to his mentor's side, Merlin's attention was snagged away from the old man - still worryingly out cold on the floor - by an all too familiar and hair-raising sound coming from another direction. Merlin turned his head towards the gurgling, rattling noise, and felt his heart plummet for the second time in the last hour. Though his instinct was to see to the needs of the man he would call 'father' if he had met him at a younger age, Gaius himself had said that there was nothing more that _he_ could do for the one who was now a conflicting pull on his heart. And so praying silently that his mentor and Gwaine were indeed in no danger (as they had at a glance appeared), and would shortly regain consciousness without his aid, he instead teetered over to the cot and his more urgent patient.

Arthur was paler than Merlin could ever remember him being; even more so than when he had been dying from the Questing Beast's venom. His chest appeared still, but when Merlin laid his ear to it, he heard more distinctly the harbinger of death that had snagged his attention from across the room, as his friend's body lost the ability to swallow and his lung cavity continued to fill with blood. His heart too was weakening in its dance, and was now barely the flutter of a butterfly's wings – as it fought to free itself from a spider's web - under the press of Merlin's fingertips.

The warlock ducked his head and squeezed his eyes shut; unable to keep his shoulders from surrendering to the judder of his grief. Tears flowed down his cheeks and mucous from his nose; dripping onto the man and blanket by his side.

_Oh please no! Don't make this my final punishment; by taking away my other half. Haven't I lost enough? Sacrificed enough? Why couldn't I be the one to go first? Why must you make me go on living and watching, as all those I care about leave me one by one? It's not fair and it's not right! He's needed, damn it! He has to live._

_I told you this would happen; warned you about my curse. But would you listen to me, you great clot? Do you ever? Well you'd better listen to me now, you stupid prat, because you can't die! You have a Kingdom to run, like you're always telling me; ironically enough when you don't want to listen to what I have to say. And you have people who care about you; love you. You can't leave them...or me. I won't let you! You hear me now, King Cabbage-head? Stop it, or I'll never forgive you! Stop bleeding! Breathe properly! You're stronger than this; the people's champion, for fuck's sake! They can't lose you and you have a duty to not let them down. If there is one more thing I will do on this Earth before I die, then I swear it will be to stop you, Arthur. I _am_ Emrys...and I _will not_ allow you to die!_

And though he knew he would regret it later - if there was a later - and his guardian would scold him for his idiocy, Merlin unclenched the blankets he had wrapped along with his anguish in his fists, and gently laid his palms one more time on the red-drenched skin of his friend. Filling his own chest to capacity, he plunged his consciousness deep into the murky, undulating pool of his power and drew it cursing and crying out of his soul; down his arms to where it was so desperately needed.

"Gestepe hole! Þurhhæle!"

As Merlin watched and bit on his lower lip, he felt his magic reluctantly release itself; giving his stomach an uncomfortable twist, leaving a taste in his mouth like he had bitten into sour fruit, and causing him to feel a little more drained than before. Arthur's wound, however, did not close nor cease to bleed.

"Oh come on, you stupid prat, you're not even trying! Þurhhæle bræd!"

This time Merlin gasped as his magic left him, feeling as if it had drawn grit and created sparks like a steel and flint throughout his insides in its wake. At the same time, a large gong had seemed to bang in his temples, making his skull and ears feel like they resonated with it. Again, there was no change to his friend.

"Grrrrr...must you always be so difficult!" Merlin growled; bunching his hands tightly and only by sheer force of will stopping himself from beating the faltering chest beneath them. Instead, he shoved a wave of tranquillity through himself, along with a slow stream of air from 'o'-shaped lips, then flattened his fingers out again and drove a larger measure of his power into the man below.

"Þurhhæle dolgbenn!"

"Licsar ge staðol nu!"

"Wel cene hole!"

"Ic þe þurhhæle þin licsare mid þam sundorcræftas þære ealdaþ æ! Arrghhhh!"

With each spell cast, Merlin's voice became louder, until he was practically screaming the last phrase through gritted teeth; his magic crying out with him and filling his body with the impression that his insides had received 20 lashes from a searing hot whip. Meanwhile, his energy levels were swiftly ebbing away, until it felt like he had run to Ealdor and back non-stop. Now he rested his forehead on the blanket, gasping for breath and unsure if he even had the strength left to sit back up, but knowing he had no choice. Because though it was obviously having no effect - due to his magic being too injured and weak or Arthur's wound being too deep and his health irredeemable (knowing his luck, it was all of the above) - he had to keep trying. Until there was nothing left. Because the only way he knew how to live was to give everything he had to give.

He had sworn to protect the King; to give his life for him if circumstances saw fit to demand it. And if Gaius had done all he could to no effect, then the only option left _was_ magic. But he had tried every healing spell he knew, so what else could he do? He did not have time to call and consult with the dragon; finding the strength to ride out to meet him would be a marathon in itself. Nor was there time to rifle through his or Gaius' magic books. If he was honest with himself, it was nearly always Gaius who came up with solutions to seemingly unsolvable problems using that method anyway, and his mentor was currently in no position to aid him. So the onus was on Merlin and what knowledge he already possessed. His power may be ailing, but he was still supposed to be the greatest warlock who ever lived, and if he could not do this then no-one could, and Arthur would not survive.

_But he has to, he _ha_s to! He has a destiny to fulfil, and though he's on his way, he's not there yet. Come on, damn you, think...THINK!_

And then it came to him. There were a couple of spells he had read somewhere once; read but never tried. Because when he had discussed them with his mentor, he had been warned, then begged and finally demanded of an oath to just for once in his life obey, when Gaius had said he must never - under any circumstances - use them. For they both could prove deadly to the user; one more so than the other. But still, this _was_ an extreme situation, and surely..._surely_ he had a good enough reason to do what needed to be done. Even if the end result might not be so favourable for himself.

_What is the life of a servant compared to that of a prince...or a king? And I'm not exactly a good servant, as he himself has told me often enough. Maybe in this act, I can prove that my life _did_ have a purpose; that every disaster up 'til now has been leading to this moment. My one chance at redemption for my crimes. Then their teachings - my mother's, Gaius', Kilgharrah's - won't have all been a waste. I may be disobeying you, Gaius, but I do this _for_ you...and for them. So that maybe...just maybe, you won't have to hang your head quite so far in shame. That, though you may not call yourself proud of me, you can be sure that in the end I did some good; that I am not pure evil. I know you will be angry with me, but just this once I believe I'm justified in not doing as I'm told, and if the results speak for themselves, you'__ll__ have to agree with me. Because this IS my destiny, and by fulfilling it, I will help Arthur to achieve his. And then everything will be as it should be, as the prophets predicted...you'll see._

Casting further debates aside before they could steal more of Arthur's limited time, Merlin took several cleansing breaths, trying vainly to bring his overly fast pulse down to a statelier pace. He mentally tried to send a cooling balm to soothe his aching, burning magic, but it had as much effect as trying to re-attach an amputated limb with nothing more than a kind word and a gentle pat on the head, so he gave it up for the lost cause that it was. He would pay for this later or not at all; whatever the Gods or fate allowed.

Merlin looked down at the man beside him, and a small, sad smile crept over his lips. Keeping one gentle hand on Arthur's chest, he moved the other to clasp the man's forearm and gave it the barest of squeezes, as he regarded the visage he had come to know as well as his own. He imagined it no longer slack, sunken and grey, but as he was more used to seeing it: full of colour and life and with bright blue eyes twinkling above a mouth that either bore a derisive smirk or was pursed and about to spit out a degrading punishment for his servant's latest transgression. That was how he wanted to remember his friend. Not like this.

"Everything will be alright, Arthur," he whispered, though with the only other sound in the room being the King's shallow, wet breaths (the warning bells having at last been left to vibrate into silence), his words could have been heard out in the corridor anyway. "You'll see."

Releasing the King's arm, he brought his left hand back to join his right, closed his eyes and braced himself for what he knew was to come, before plunging his mind down, down, further than he'd ever had to go before; into the shallow, muddy puddle that was what remained of his gift.

"Ic ábregdan fram þú dæl þín daru. Ic ágiefe æt þú dæl min handmægen. Forþám Þurhhæle bræd pone cyning."

As the last word of the spell drifted from his lips, he knew in an instant that it had worked, and reflexively lifted a hand to clutch at his own chest. Warm, wet life swelled from the agonising new tear there, before it pooled and then dripped down his shaking fingers; leaving streaks on the burnt skin of his wrists. The hand that still pressed against Arthur's body began to emit a glow of light; blue in colour and nowhere near as bright as the manacles had been earlier when they had unlocked. Heat grew at the spot where their skin touched, though thankfully, it wasn't the scorching kind he had felt slice through his veins before. This was more the pleasant warmth of a welcoming hearth, after a long day working outside in mid-winter. Except now the reverse was happening, and the warmth and energy was flowing _away_ from him; into his friend, whose colour gradually brightened at the same rate as his own dulled. Merlin's teeth began to chatter.

Beneath him, the blood that had been leaving the King's body no longer did so, though there was still plenty in situ to give evidence of the terrible battle the man had waged, as his soul had lain on the cusp of Avalon, and Merlin knew that it would take his friend a few days at least to recover his strength, with the level of blood loss he had endured. He gripped his tunic and neckerchief with clawed fingers, a little alarmed at how quickly they were becoming sodden, and bit the inside of his cheek to hold in the cry that was sitting on his tongue like a foul potion he was summoning up the courage to swallow. As his magic writhed and the agony blossomed, Merlin speculated that had he not 'practiced' with Gaius' herbal knife all that time - building his immunity to pain - he would have passed out long before this one last bid to save Arthur's life.

_There is a purpose for everything_, he mused absentmindedly, before another excruciating wave shuddered though him, and whited out all introspection for a few seconds.

When his vision was clear again, he watched with a huge sense of relief as the wound in Arthur's chest began to shrink. The edges of the skin puckered and started to knit, and the King's chest rose higher and sunk lower - without making the heart-wrenching death rattle that had torn a hole in Merlin's heart. Simultaneously, his own heart beat faster and less steadily while his breaths quickened and became less deep and rhythmical.

But even as he began to feel dizzy and faint, as his strength drained away from him, and he struggled to ride through the throbbing torment in his veins and chest, Merlin kept his eyes fixed to his King. He needed to hold on just long enough to be reassured that Arthur would survive; that those first signs of life returning to him would not suddenly be snatched away again (though if they were, he was fairly sure that there would little or nothing he could do about it, in the condition he was now in). Merlin felt his hands becoming numb, though he held them still; _believing_ they were where he'd left them, rather than sensing that they were.

His hearing too had started to diminish, and it felt like his head had been plunged into a bath of soapy water. Distantly, he thought he heard the scrape of wood and tap of feet against stone, followed by a voice calling out his name a couple of times, but the sounds became nothing more than a lilting warble in the background, and he no longer had the ability to turn his head and identify their source.

Merlin's groggy mind distracted him for a moment with the nonsensical thought that if he was losing his senses, his taste and smell were probably disappearing too. But since they were not making a particularly useful contribution to current events, he was blissfully unaware of their loss.

A soft darkening at the edges of his vision began to creep across his eyes; as if he was sitting in a room full of candles that were being blown out one-by-one.

_No, no_, he begged, _just a little longer, I need to know he's going to be alright, before I finally get my wish_.

Though this could be construed as a far nobler end than the coward's one he had twice-before sought, Merlin wasn't sure anymore if this _was_ what he wanted. If he'd not been such an idiot, things would have turned out better or perhaps not happened at all. But he had chosen the path he now followed, and at this point in the journey, there had been no more choices to make. He'd _had_ to do this...for his King. No...for his _friend_.

Suddenly, the thought of not being there to see Arthur wake up made him feel terribly sad.

_Goodbye, Arthur_.

Then Merlin fell into a darkness so complete he did not feel his body slump the rest of the way to the floor nor his head meet stone with a loud thump.


	24. Chapter 24

**A/N: Umm, right, well that took a little longer than I expected. Sorry about that. I won't bore you with my excuses. Suffice to say - and in the words of the great John Lennon - "Life is what happens to you when you're busy making other plans". Thank you again for all the reviews, favourites and follows...or simply just reading my drivel. I really do appreciate your kindness in giving my work a chance :O)  
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**Okay, please don't kill me about the content of this chapter. This was originally going to be the last one, but it grew into such a humongous monster, I had to split it in two. So think of this as part 1. Part 2 is almost ready to go - just another round of editing or two and I will be able to post it...probably in a day or so. There will be an Epilogue...when I've written it (won't say when that will be, as I think you all know by now how lousy my time keeping is). Anyway, I'll go and hide back in my cave now so you can get on with reading...  
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**Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin**

* * *

**Chapter 24**

The sun was sinking steadily lower in the sky, darkening the clouds that had been gathering gradually over the course of the day to dull lavender; their undersides burning peach and gold. In contrast to the sky's loud farewell to the day, the snow-capped mountains along the horizon had become nothing more than cold, jagged silhouettes; slicing up into the orange bloom and bleeding down into the darkened forest beneath them. The waters of the lake threw back the image of the world above; a dirge to nature's fading beauty and to the memory of the figure lying so still and at peace on the boat at their edge.

Two serving maids, their heads bowed in grief and respect turned away from the boat; having placed the last of the rushes, lilies and marigolds around its occupant, and ensuring the man looked his best for those gathered to see him make his last journey. Behind them, two knights stood in full armour; red ceremonial cloaks pulling at their clasps as they swirled around legs that were knee-deep in the rapidly-cooling water. But the two men paid no heed to their discomfort; their gazes flickering between the body at their side and the one who would give them their signal to proceed with their task. One, his normally well-kept hair hanging in unwashed bangs around a grim face, almost continuously clenched and unclenched his jaw; the harsh swallows - as he fought to keep the pain from showing on his face - visible even to those lining the shore.

At the slight nod of the one standing at the head of the crowd, and with the water sucking at the soles of their boots, the two men turned away from their brothers and friends at the forest's edge; muscles bunching to the task of giving the boat as large a shove as they could. It rocked slightly to one side - the knight there being a good deal taller and more heavily built than the other, but each managed to keep their footing on the weed-slicked lake-bottom as the ladened vessel left their guard and serenely coasted forwards, under the momentum of their combined strength. Both stood watching for a handful of heartbeats, as the boat drifted away, taking their departed friend with it, before first one then the other turned and started to wade to the lake's edge.

As Percival stepped back onto the root-exposed soil, his cloak creating a small waterfall around his marinated leather boots, he stopped for a moment and bowed to the man standing there, before carrying on to join his fellow knights behind; turning to face the same direction as the other mourners. Gwaine did not stop walking when he stepped onto the shore and stomped to his finishing position, a stride away from Leon; the squelching of his boots partially ruining the effect of his demonstrative ire. But Arthur gave no indication of annoyance at the man's blatant disregard of proper protocol when passing his King. Because he felt none.

In fact he felt nothing. Nothing but a cold and heavy rock sitting where his heart should be beating. Was it not lying there in the boat, beside his departed friend. Arthur stared at the boat as it made its slow voyage; the wood carving through the barely moving water like a knife slicing through a bolt of gaudy silk. At this distance, he could hardly make out the outline of the boat's only passenger, never mind his facial features or clothes; freshly laundered and pressed for the occasion. In death not disgracing him as they had so often in life, for their shabbiness and need of a good wash, or better still: replacement. The king imagined the face as he had last seen it: so pale and calm; revealing none of the secrets of the body's last painful moments in life.

Like the whisper of a forgotten dream, he heard his second-in-command give the order to the archer to proceed, and a few moments later he heard the hungry rush of a flame flaring, followed by a sharp twang, as a bowstring was drawn taut and released. A shiver ran down Arthur's spine that had nothing to do with the chilling approaching of a late autumn night, as the lit arrow sailed high overhead; like a falling star in the darkening sky. Was it not for the stillness of the light breeze in that moment, he would have missed the quiet 'thunk' as metal sank into wood and passed on its burning message to the boat's side. Even without a helpful movement of air, the flames soon spread, and mere minutes later, the little boat was spewing smoke and yellow tongues of all-consuming heat.

The King stared out across the almost reverently still water. The boat by now had lost any forward momentum, and with no wind to carry it, it simply drifted; a flickering golden rose floating on the lake, like the sun had fallen from the sky and was being consumed by the chill and the wet. But not before it had ignited the boulder revolving in Arthur's chest; sending burning acid into his throat and fleeing, squirming worms into his intestines. He tried so desperately to be the unmoving face of dispassion, untouched by the events that had lead to this moment, for the sake of his men; a symbol of pride and hope to his people. His cheek appeared to have gained an especially nervous tick and anyone who didn't know better would assume he was chewing on a particularly bothersome piece of gristle, for the way his lips twitched and his teeth clenched. His hands too - one holding the pommel of his sword in its scabbard and the other grasping a small section of the chainmail hanging below his belt - seemed to be trying to divulge themselves of their knuckle bones.

For a number of minutes, his efforts were successful. Until he heard the sound of sheer agony and misery from somewhere to his right. The dread he instantly felt was not strong enough to stop his neck from turning his gaze away from the lake and in the direction of the gut wrenching noise. A short distance away, a middle-aged woman (whose humble hearth he had once defended and shared) - her legs barely holding her weight under the avalanche of grief - sobbed into the arms the Court Physician wrapped around her shivering form. Gaius too shook; trails of moisture flowing from his eyes and nose, and his face pulled into a ghastly grimace of bared teeth and wrinkled skin, as if the man had been stabbed. On his other side, Gwen had her arms wrapped around the two old friends, giving and receiving what comfort she could in their moment of shared torture; beautiful face made ugly by too many nights with little sleep, days with insufficient nourishment and the hole that had been torn in her heart by the loss of her friend.

And that was all it took for the carefully constructed walls the King had built around his heart to be blasted to dust. Saltwater flooded his pale, sunken cheeks; his mouth open and gulping at the air as if he struggled in vain to keep the breath inside him long enough for it to do some good. His eyelashes fluttered, futilely trying to clear his blurring vision, until he lifted a gloved hand to press thumb and fingers hard on his burning eyelids. With no end to their task, they stayed there; rubbing and squeezing at the tears. His shoulders began to shudder and hunch at the onslaught of emotions running amok through a body that no longer cared; not about his image, nor his pride, nor the tongues that would tattle and twitch with sympathy and rumour for many weeks to come.

What did he care for their uninformed theories and blatant disregard for his needs? _He_ was gone! Stolen from his side. His life given (or taken, depending on one's perspective) in payment for his King's; his friend's. Never again would he see_ his_ face; animated by grimace or grin. There would be no more cheeky retorts or whining complaints fired in his direction. No torso to kick in agitation for a late awakening. No-one's meal to hide behind his back in jest around a campfire. No head to throw a goblet at nor clumsy foot to laugh at, as it tripped on air. No dark hair to ruffle or skinny shoulder to squeeze or wise words to hear. No more.

Arthur opened his eyes and blinked away the haze that lingered to look once more upon the beautiful and horrible vista; the boat now more smoke than flame, as the floating pyre's fuel began to diminish. The man and his wooden cradle were all but gone to Avalon. Arthur swallowed and sniffed hard; trying desperately to clear airways enough to release the one word that clung to his tongue. The word that had been spoken by it so many times over the years, it could have been branded on it. And Arthur wished in some ways that it had, so that he could never forget this word, no matter how long he lived or how many servants he befriended or battle cries he yelled to rouse his men. The word would stay a permanent reminder to the (in some ways) odd, but (in more ways) indelible friendship they'd shared for too few years. A word he once shouted through the halls of his home as he took angry steps to bring himself nearer to its bearer, so that he could throw it again (this time as an insult) with more satisfaction; directly into his ears. And just when he thought it would stay locked in his grief-tightened throat forever, it slipped out on a ghostly breath; too quiet for anyone but himself to hear.

"Merlin!"

The sound of shuffling feet and the clink of metal scraping on wood jolted Arthur awake with a small gasp. He vehemently suppressed the overwhelming desire to run out of his room and along the corridors in his sweat-drenched night clothes to the physician's chambers to gain some sort of comfort - medicinal or physical. He knew from experience it would have no effect on the nightmares he would have the next time he fell asleep. His only respite was distraction. If he applied himself diligently and for long enough, he had less chance to think about and may yet even forget what he'd seen. His dreams could haunt him when he had no control over his mind's wanderings, but at least in the waking world he could run away for a while; fill his mind too full of other things to allow space for thought.

Arthur turned over to lie on his back and stare at the red canopy above him; not bothering to release himself from the intertwining blankets as he waited for his heart rate to slow to something approaching normal. The sounds - of curtains being drawn, water being sloshed into his wash basin and the wardrobe door being opened to allow his attire for the day to be selected - surrounded and cocooned him in a gentle swathe of familiarity that further placed his senses into order.

He could quite happily lounge among the warm coverings for at least another hour, and would have had no complaints from his attendant if he'd demanded his breakfast be brought to his bed instead of left on the table. He even had the excuse of his physician strongly recommending he spend as much time as possible resting. But Arthur was too conscious of things needing to be done to wallow longer. With a long and loud sigh, he untangled himself, swung his feet to the cold floor and slowly stood. He had learned over the last few days to take his time with such simple things as rising, after the first couple of instances where he had been brought to his knees and nearly blacked out from throwing himself to his feet in his usual, impetuous way. It was due to the joint incentive of wishing to avoid Gaius' scolding, and his own embarrassment at having to be helped upright again that he forced himself to take things easier than his mind wished. He was well acquainted with the consequences of severe blood-loss - _thank you very much, Gaius! _- but still felt betrayed by his own body when it reminded him, in the least sympathetic ways possible, to follow the oft-repeated advice of the chiding eyebrow tourney champion.

Once the usual blood-rush-to-head was over, Arthur went behind his changing screen, dressed in the clothes that had been carefully laid out for him, and walked over to sit at the table to begin breaking his fast. Thanks to the duties that could be delegated having been done so, and those that could not being postponed until his health had returned, Arthur was not assaulted by the typically long to-do list he would be on waking, and he therefore ate in silence. A sidelong glance to his left showed him his manservant being his demure and non-talkative self; jug of water held at the ready to refill his cup before he could summon the breath to request it. Rolling his eyes, Arthur returned them to looking at the spot in the middle distance that allowed his mind to contemplate all the things that he had left unresolved, when he had finally admitted defeat against the pull of fatigue the night before.

First and foremost, was the delegation from Dyfed. Prince Anlawd had taken little persuasion - so Leon had informed him - to remain in Camelot a few extra nights than originally planned. The assassin still being at large (it was only _assumed_ that Arthur, not his guest, had been the intended target after all), and his new ally's desire to be sure that Camelot's ruler was truly out of danger, had been reason enough to stay. Anlawd had even graciously added his own men to the extra patrols Agravaine had sent to search the castle, city and surrounding villages, to find the missing would-be murderer. But even with their aid, there had been no sign of the man, and Arthur - under the defeated and sorrowful advisement of his Uncle - could only assume that the man was long gone; taking with him any information on who had instigated the failed assassination. Arthur couldn't disagree with Agravaine's theory that this was yet another attempt of Odin to eliminate his son's killer, but then it could equally be one of half-a-dozen other Lords or Kings who coveted Camelot's throne, or hated its current occupant enough to end his life. Including his own sister.

But with Arthur's health on the mend, and the search for the assassin having been all but called off as a lost cause, the visitors were heading home that morning, and Arthur was determined to eschew his physician's advice and return to full duty, starting with the formal send off of his ally. He knew that his Uncle, councillors and knights were perfectly capable of representing his kingdom when it came to saying their farewells and giving reassurances to the standing of their new treaty, but if there was one thing Arthur wanted leaders of other kingdoms to bear witness to, it was that he took his dedication to peaceful ties with them personally, and not merely as a means of furthering trade or ensuring aid in times of war. If Arthur was going to make the life he had been gifted again and again count for anything, it was to do everything in his power to bring unity to the land. Peace, and a promise to their enemies that unlike his father, his strength was in his benevolence and justness to all - however small the kingdom or common the man - not by the incitement of fear or the vastness of his army. Agravaine - and a few of the older, less forward-thinking men of his council - might disagree, but this was _his_ land to rule now, and Arthur would do so as he saw fit; as his true friends had encouraged him to do, by their words, loyalty and actions.

Arthur glanced across to the man loitering off to the side, and - his mouth quirking into a grimace and his brow bearing a slight frown - he said, "You may go, George."

The servant immediately covered his jolt at the break in silence, and his muscles stiffened just the right amount to show attentiveness to his master. "A-are you certain there is nothing further you require, your majesty?"

Arthur's frown deepened. Ever since he had woken from the stabbing incident, and George had returned to his side, the man had seemed uncommonly jittery and - if it was at all possible - even more servile than he had been before. It was as if he was trying to make up for a transgression against his employer or expected punishment for one, though for the life of him, Arthur couldn't imagine what the bootlicking man might have done to behave in this way, and it was starting to irritate him even more than his previous mannerisms had. Given the timing of the change, Arthur presumed it had something to do with what happened during or just after the ill-fated feast, but since he had received no reports of the man's less than exemplary behaviour or actions, and as there was no evidence of anything being other than it should be (where his manservant was concerned), he could only assume the man was fussing over nothing. Again. Like having applied only two coats of polish to his armour instead of three; quite unnecessary and indeed laughable, when the King counted himself lucky to get even one coat of polish from the servant's predecessor, and that was under duress.

Arthur's heart gave a twist at the painful reminder of the nightmare he had woken up from, too short a time ago for it to have faded yet. Not that time made any difference to the vividness of the images. But it wouldn't do to present the departing royal visitor with such a grim visage and give an erroneous impression of Camelot's regard towards Dyfed, so he forced his mind to relinquish further thoughts of the man that had been the focal point of his dream.

Wiping his mouth on his napkin and then throwing it carelessly over the remains on his plate, Arthur stood and walked towards the changing screen. He heard a soft clunk as George placed the jug on the table, followed by rapid footsteps as the man hurried to reach the screen before him and have his surcoat ready to apply to the King's person. Arthur waited until the servant was buckling his sword belt to his waist before replying to the earlier question.

"Quite certain, thank you." And with that, he turned and strode out the room, leaving George to tidy his breakfast dishes and bed with his usual efficiency.

* * *

Lord Agravaine watched as the last of Dyfed's soldiers left; the click of their horses' shoes resounding crisply in the rapidly emptying courtyard. The size of the audience to the royal visitor's departure had been greatly reduced from the one at their arrival, but there were still a fair few that had been gathered on the steps and round the cloisters; either out of curiosity or at their master's behest. Though Agravaine had very little time for the opinions and interests of the common rabble that worked in and around the castle, he was still a little surprised at the attention paid to what was only the ruler's son of a minor kingdom. No doubt more evidence of the influence of his pathetically weak-minded and annoyingly still-alive nephew.

The Lord hung back a little to the side of the main group of nobles that were making their way back inside the castle and towards an early lunch, now that their duty to the crown was paid. Their King, he noticed, still stood on the spot from which he had given his sickeningly heartfelt speech to Prince Anlawd. He still looked uncommonly pale, and Agravaine had observed that he had had a marked reduction in strength to his stride, as he had descended the steps to take his place amongst his knights and councilmen, with Dyfed's prince at his side; chatting amiably. But there had unfortunately been no further evidence of the injury he had received at the feast a few days before. Something that Agravaine still had a hard time comprehending.

He knew the wound should have been fatal. He had been seated only three feet away when it had occurred; and true to his employee's boasts and assurances, the man had been fast, discreet and skilled. So much so that Agravaine himself had fair jumped out of his skin with the shock of it, despite the fact that he knew it would be coming at some point in the evening. Even with the immediate chaos that ensued in the hall (the commanding shouts of the knights as they had sent guards in pursuit of the escaped assassin and cleared the area around the King for the Court Physician to gain access to him, as well as the screams of noble and servant women alike; shocked at what had occurred, and fearing for their own lives) he, as first advisor, had been granted a close-up view of the knife thrown and where in the body it was embedded. By all rights, Arthur's death had seemed assured, and Agravaine had felt confident in allowing events to unfold as his Lady had planned them; looking forward eagerly to an early morning rendezvous with the sorceress to bring the good news and gain the praise he had been aching to hear from her beautiful, pale lips.

But he had been sorely disappointed yet again. Only hours later, he had received a late night report - from a very relieved yet still anxious-looking Sir Leon - that his nephew lived, and with rest would continue to improve. Agravaine had plastered his face with the most simpering and delighted smile he could muster, thanked the knight and sent him on his way, with promises of paying the King a visit in the morning, to be reassured of his ability to make a full recovery. He had then proceeded to untidy his room in the most disastrous way; flinging every item to hand at the surrounding walls. Though normally a calm and collected person, and not driven to take out his umbrage on inanimate objects, however severely vexed, this latest catastrophe had been the straw that broke the camel's back, in a long string of aggravating failures. Not to mention the fact that instead of basking in his lady's good will, he would have to bear the brunt of her rage once more for his supposed inadequacies, when he had done everything in his power to ensure their plan did not fail this time.

And how, for that matter, had it failed? He supposed that Gaius' great skills in the medicinal arts must have some play in the outcome. If only that hot-head, Gwaine, had not interrupted him before he'd had the chance to rid them of the old codger, after the Catha failed to do so! But still, even a physician as experienced as Gaius could not have averted the call of death so succinctly. Unless he'd had the audacity to employ the art he had long since sworn to Uther he would never use again? The turnaround of events certainly pointed to the use of magic, for what else could prevent a man dealt a mortal blow from dying, and so quickly too? But would the old man really have put his life at such risk - face the very real possibility of his own death - even if it was to save the life of the King? And did he even have the ability to perform such a deed? If he had, why had he not done the same when Uther had been on his deathbed, instead of offering the name of another sorcerer who had skills he did not? Arthur had made it clear by his enquiries on the subject that he was willing to do anything to save his cur of a father, so he had as good as guaranteed that the physician's life would be spared if he was to succeed in such an endeavour.

_Unless...No! It could not have been...but that would mean... Oh Gods! Morgana is going to be livid when she finds out._

Any mention of _that_ sorcerer's name and she made it quite clear to any unfortunate witnesses (though she would likely slit the throat of any that dared voice their observations) that she was Uther Pendragon's daughter through and through. It was a wonder the whereabouts of her hovel had not yet been discovered, with the volume of her resultant, magically-enhanced outburst, on hearing the word 'Emrys' in connection with her failure to attain Camelot's throne! And as such, Agravaine did not relish being the one to do so, but at least her tantrum would be directed at her walls and furniture instead of him. And if he could further appease her by pre-empting her desire to punish the second person she would blame for her lack of success, then he would hopefully escape unscathed from her wrath; with only a pair of ringing ears for his unwelcome news.

_Time then to tie up all the loose ends and stop procrastinating._

Looking back over to the centre of the steps, Agravaine saw that Arthur had just turned around and was slowly climbing them to the main entrance; tailing the last of his knights who were heading back inside. The boy was not really looking where he was going; staring down at the rise in front of him, his mind obviously not where his body was.

_Thinking about that pathetic excuse for a servant of his again, I suppose. How much _more_ time is Arthur going to waste thinking about that bumbling cretin? He really needs to move on; put the past behind him. The best decision he made in a long time was to replace the man, even though the new one's equally immune to bribery. Still, maybe this George fellow knows more about that ridiculous story the knights have been circulating: that the assassin made a second attempt on Arthur's life and the fool got in the way and was stabbed himself. All lies of course...have to be. But if I say anything, they may grow suspicious as to how I know the assassin could not have gone to Gaius' chambers, since he had already gone to ground. Not that it really matters how the boy got hurt...likely did it himself again! Well, good riddance! With any luck, he'll soon be nothing but a bad memory, and my lady can at least rest assured that he will no longer play a part in spoiling her plans._

With the courtyard now all but empty, Lord Agravaine quickly moved out of the shadow he'd been standing in; his presence forgotten (except by a couple of the more traditional of the council members, who had at least nodded to him in greeting as they passed) as he turned in the direction of the lower town.

The streets of Camelot were favourably packed at that time of day, with market goers and tradesmen buying and selling, as well as servants and other workers making their way home or to a food stall for their midday meal. The darkly-clad noble therefore had little trouble blending with the crowd and dipping in and out of shadowed doorways until he reached the quieter, less salubrious part of the town, where traders never ventured and shoppers didn't tarry, for fear of having their purses pilfered or their throats cut. Though Arthur had made much progress in bringing improvements and aid to the poorer sections of the town, there would always be those who continued their less than salutary ways; not because they had no choice, but because they enjoyed it. It was their way of life, and they wouldn't give it up, no matter what alternatives they were offered or threats they received.

Arriving at the door he sought, Agravaine looked up at the sign hanging above, like a mouldy animal carcass; its picture of two fighting cockerels nearly obscured by dirt and flaked off paint. Agravaine turned the handle of the door, making a note to thoroughly clean his hands later with a stiff brush. Glancing over each shoulder, and content there were no witnesses sober enough to remember his face, he lifted his foot; only to find it barred by a human leg. The nobleman looked down in surprise, and wrinkling his nose with disgust, used the raised limb to roughly shove the dozing, drunk man clutching an empty tankard off to one side; freeing the doorway. The man didn't wake, but merely slumped further down towards the street; his stubble-covered cheek resting against the inn wall as he began to snore loudly. Paying the sot no further attention, Agravaine ducked down and entered the establishment's dingy interior.

The main room of the inn was almost empty. Only one customer sat on one of the grime-covered and cracked benches, and at the sight of the man's lice-riddled hair flopping over his crossed forearms, as he slept away the results of the night before, Agravaine promptly ignored him and stepped closer to the bar. The dark-bearded, bald and beefy-armed innkeeper stood up from whatever he'd been doing behind the bar, and on catching sight of the visitor standing in the middle of the room - like a vulture waiting until the larger carnivores had left before swooping to devour the remains of their meal - he turned to the only other occupant of the inn.

"Gorv!" he said loudly, not taking his eyes off Agravaine.

The young man in question, who was listlessly and ineffectually pushing piles of sawdust and other, more questionable substances around the legs of a table with an old and many times-repaired broom, looked up. "Wha'?" he replied impertinently, not bothering to hide his disgruntlement for having his daydream interrupted.

"Go fetch me anuvver barrel of ale; a large one."

The tall and lanky boy stopped thrusting the broom he had no enthusiasm to move much anyway, and leaned on it. Frowning at the innkeeper, and with a rebellious pout to his mouth, he whined, "But I only brung one up vis mornin'. You ain't e'en opened it yet!"

Aside from the boy's long, mousey-coloured hair and an even worse state of clothes, Agravaine was reminded of Arthur's previous manservant, and one of the countless times Merlin had had the cheek to question _his_ master's orders. A small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth as he watched the innkeeper's very Arthur-like response to the protest.

"Now, Gorv!" he growled, glowering at his recalcitrant employee, who unceremoniously dropped his broom and stomped off - Agravaine assumed - in the direction of the cellar; grumbling not quite under his breath all the way.

The innkeeper turned to the heavily-stained and weapon-scored top of the bar, and reaching for the rag tucked into the back of his belt (that looked like it would only serve to make anything it was rubbed against even dirtier) he proceeded to polish the wooden surface beneath his hands. After a few seconds of silent scrubbing, the innkeeper's eyes flickered up to peer at Agravaine from beneath the dark forest of his brows.

"You 'ere to see 'im?"

"I am," the noble replied tersely, folding his arms. "Where is he?"

The innkeeper ignored the question and abandoned his filth-covered cloth to pull a couple of tankards towards him that had been lining the bar; tipping their dregs into something down by his feet. "When am I gonna get paid for vis?" he eventually said, only a moment before Agravaine was about to repeat his question more loudly. "S'not easy, y'know, keeping vem guards from sniffin' about the place. Vey been 'ere twice already." At the nobleman's continued silence, the jowl-faced man looked up at him; his brow furrowed with suspicion. "What vey wan' 'im for anyway?"

"I told you before," Agravaine said, his tone becoming impatient, "I'm not paying you to ask questions."

"You ain't paying me a' all!" the innkeeper said, his voice slightly raised with indignation and his frown deepening.

Agravaine unfolded his arms and placed a hand on the hilt of his sword. The innkeeper's eyes flickered as they followed the nobleman's movements before drifting back to his face, a hint of wariness in his own expression, though he was not prepared to retract his complaint. "So you would prefer it if the King hears about your tax evasions? Or maybe he would like to know about your black-market trading in magical talismans and charms? Or how about the fact that your brother-"

"Yeah alrigh', I get the point!" the now red-faced man cut in; sweating slightly more than before, as his eyes lowered back to the counter. "'E's upstairs; last door on the righ'." He flicked his head back over his shoulder; towards a doorway through which Agravaine could just - by craning his own head in that direction - make out wooden steps leading up.

The nobleman smirked widely before striding forwards and ducking below the lintel of the doorway to the stairs.

"E'd be'er be on 'is way soon, _my Lord_."

Agravaine only paused a moment on the first steps, when he heard the words growled out by the innkeeper; looking briefly over his shoulder and allowing a smirk to brush over his lips, as he marvelled at the irony of the foul man's demand.

The nobleman soon reached the top of the staircase and took slow, careful steps (not that there was any reason to be silent, after his feet had seemed to find every creak and squeak in the worn wooden rises on his way up) until he was standing outside the indicated room. Keeping a gloved hand on the hilt of his sword, Agravaine gave three knocks on the dirt-streaked and coarsely-hewn door, and then listened out for the sound of movement beyond it. Silence.

"Seldon, I know you're in there. Open the door," he called through the wood. Agravaine waited another half a minute, and was starting to wonder if perhaps the man had heard him speaking to the Innkeeper, and thinking he was a guard (searching the area again after receiving a tip), had escaped out a window, when he caught the sound of boots scraping on bare boards, followed by the grinding of the key in the lock. When there was no further invitation to enter, the nobleman took that as all the leave he was going to get and turning the handle, he pushed the door inwards slowly; his hand never straying from his weapon.

Despite the brightness of the day outside, the room Agravaine stepped into was dark and musty, and taking another cautious step forwards, he saw that the ratty excuse for a curtain (that had long ago tried to disintegrate itself into oblivion, rather than continue witnessing whatever underhanded deeds took place in the room) had been drawn across the small window; leaving the space a dim maw of floating dust and nose-wrinkling smells. He glanced around, taking in the sight of the rickety table and single chair below the covered window, and the uncomfortable-looking, unmade bed to his left. So far though, there was no sign of the lock's opener, and Agravaine frowned, preparing to call out again for the man to come out of his hiding place, when the sound of the door shutting and its key turning behind him forced the noble to suppress his body's desire to jump out of its skin.

Before he could turn around to face whoever had confined him to the smelly and suddenly-too-small room, Agravaine froze at the feel of something sharp pressed between his shoulder blades.

Swallowing as his heart gained pace, he queried (unable to keep the slight waver from his tone), "Seldon?"

"Took your time, didn't you?" a rough and alcohol-ridden voice rasped close to his ear, causing Agravaine to hold his own breath until the air had dispersed. "Four days I've been kept in this shit-hole."

Agravaine slowly moved his head to look over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of the man's unshaven chin and eyes dark with bubbling anger at his enforced imprisonment in the unsavoury establishment. Emboldened by obvious signs of the assassin's lack of sleep (due, he guessed, to fear for his life as each patrol had passed too close for comfort, and the sounds of the bawdy activities that had drifted through the parchment-thin walls from the neighbouring rooms each night), and knowledge that the man still required him alive to ensure his payment, Agravaine took a broad step away from the knife making a hole in his cloak and turned to face his collaborator.

He narrowed his eyes - attempting to increase the value of his presence's threat - and said, acidly, "I warned you, did I not, that it would be safer to lay low and wait for the search to die down?" At the man's thickening glower, the nobleman added. "Be thankful that I did my best to lead searches away from this part of town."

Relaxing the tension in his jaw marginally, though retaining his frown and pursed lips, Seldon sheathed the dagger in his belt before spitting out, " Yeah, well, you could've found somewhere better for me to stay while you pussy-footed around with the guards. This place stinks of piss, and the prick that runs it is far too nosey for his own good. If you'd been him, I was just about ready to run the arse-hole through and be done with it. How can you be sure you can trust him anyway?"

Agravaine smirked, while his eyes darkened conspiratorially. "Let's just say Hogarth owes me a favour or two."

The assassin harrumphed at this, but made no further comment as he backed up a couple of steps; folding his arms as he leaned back on the locked door. The implied threat did not escape his notice, and Agravaine frowned at the dark-haired man, who boldly returned his glare.

"Right, well, if you'll pay me what you owe me, I'll be on my way, and you two can call it quits."

Agravaine pursed his lips and huffed loudly, before tossing a black, leather pouch onto the rumpled blankets of the bed. The assassin held his gaze a moment before sauntering over to the bed, leaning over and grabbing the bag. The sound of metal clinking against metal pierced the cold, tense atmosphere of the room, as Seldon emptied the purse into his calloused hand and then shovelled the coins around with the tip of a stained finger. From his position, now sitting on the bed, he glared up at the nobleman.

"This is only half what you promised, Agravaine," he hissed through gritted teeth.

The Lord released his sword hilt to cross his own arms, and cocked an eyebrow at the man sarcastically. "The King survived; you failed to deliver your side of the bargain."

"Now wait a minute," Seldon said, his voice rising as he tossed the coins and their container back on the bed, before standing and taking a step towards the black-clad man; his hand hovering closer to the dagger at his belt. "That wasn't what we agreed. I took a great risk 'blending in' in those fucking kitchens and working for bugger all for weeks."

"As did I, in keeping you hidden before and after," Agravaine countered calmly; returning the man's dark look. "Still, your task was to kill the King, which you have clearly not done. Be thankful you are getting paid at all." Seldon raised his fist and was about to defend himself further when the nobleman cut him off, snapping, "Now I suggest you take your money and go; the Lady Morgana is not so forgiving of failure as I." He raised an eyebrow to emphasise his point, and barely managed to hold back a satisfied smirk when he saw a glimmer of fear cross the assassin's face.

Seldon studied the nobleman's eyes a few seconds more, and finding that there was only intransigence there, he snarled loudly and spun back to the bed, where he sat down and reached for the purse again. Muttering curses and bitter statements (that were not quite audible, but sounded something along the lines of not wanting to stay in 'this bloody dung heap a moment longer', and 'damn double-crossing nobles and their whore witches'), Seldon hurriedly gathered the small collection of coins together and shoved them into the worn pouch. He was putting the last coin in before pulling the strings tight when he heard the scrape of a boot on the grit of the unswept floor. As honed as his reflexes were, his head was only halfway through whipping round (to check on the anomalous closeness of the movement, when Agravaine should be leaving at about that point in their now terminated association), when something slammed into his back. The assassin's head halted in its path and instead look down at his chest. His eyes widened as they regarded the four inches of blood-slicked steel standing out from his brown tunic for a moment or two, before the sword tip disappeared back the way it had come.

Agravaine watched the man, a look of cold indifference on his face. Seldon attempted to draw a breath, but all he managed was a sickening gargling noise, before spraying his clothes and the blanket with a large mouthful of blood, and then crashing sideways onto the bed. The nobleman picked up the purse, and noticing the rapidly dimming eyes looking up at him through sweaty, black bangs, Agravaine smiled wide enough to display gums.

"You should thank me," he said softly, like he was trying to calm a scared child, "My lady would not have allowed you to die so quickly or painlessly." And with that, he walked to the exit, unlocked it and left the room; pocketing the leather purse as he closed the door behind him.


	25. Chapter 25

**A/N: As promised, here is the final chapter. I hope it answers all the questions you may have had after the last one (and if not, there's still the epilogue to come...whenever I finish writing it). Thank you all so much again for the fantastic support and kind words you have sent me since I began this fic...so many months ago. Without you, I would probably have given writing up as a bad idea! Whether you have followed, favourited or simply read my work, you've made me feel so glad I joined this fab little community we have here.**

**And on a personal, though still related note, I'M GOING TO SEE COLIN IN THE TEMPEST TOMORROW! Sorry, just couldn't keep that one in, I'm so excited...  
**

**Disclaimer: Merlin - the one currently purring in my lap - says I own him...but I think that's just because he's begging for food. The TV show doesn't eat (and if it did, it wouldn't like cat food), so I won't ever own that.**

**:O)**

* * *

**Chapter 25**

It was at some point in the mid-afternoon by the time Arthur came out of the impromptu meeting he'd been obliged to attend, after Lords Ackerley and Blaxton had snagged him on his return to the castle (and had immediately made him feel guilty for not granting his time before then to what had now become a pressing matter). Arthur's stomach reminded him audibly that he had missed lunch. His first instinct was to make his way back to his chambers and see if anything was still edible of the no-doubt sumptuous lunch George had left for him a couple of hours ago, but his second - and overriding - urge was to make the trip he'd been planning since before he woke up that morning.

Not wanting to face the painful confrontations (that he was almost guaranteed to have at his destination) on an empty stomach, and having the inspired idea to kill two birds with one stone, Arthur about turned and made a quick detour to the kitchens.

It was therefore armed with a covered silver platter and a half-eaten apple in his other hand that the King awkwardly knocked on the oak door before him; toeing it open to the throaty utterance of 'Enter' that he heard.

The old physician was sitting at a table, resting his elbows on it as he leaned over a large and well-thumbed tome; his white hair draped over and through the hands interlocked on his forehead. For the first time in a while now, he was alone in the room, the permanent guard over the man's ward being rendered unnecessary. Now, the only reason the knights need visit the physician's chambers for any length of time, was to have their training wounds seen to. There had been a spate of those in the last few days, with all the 'therapeutic' sparring his knights suddenly seemed a little too enthusiastic for. Rather than annoyed, Arthur had been envious; having had very little energy since the assassination attempt with which to expunge his anxiety in a similarly satisfying way.

He stood a moment on the threshold, silently shifting his weight from foot to foot; feeling like he was that seven year old boy again, who had just been yelled at by his father for dropping his sword in practice and needing to hear wise words spoken by a person who wasn't expecting him to have the skills of someone ten years older. And also a hug. With Gaius, there were always hugs, and not the quick, one-armed, non-embrace of a pat on the back, or a well-meaning but woefully inadequate shoulder squeeze, but a proper, two-armed hug; for as long as HE needed it and by someone who treasured the boy he was, not the future king he needed to be. The kind he had - for a long while now - only been a witness to, as they were bestowed on his manservant, when they'd returned from a quest during which they had defied death and probability yet again. Yes, he could admit now that he had been jealous (though Guinevere did make up for the loss to a certain extent), but he was equally glad that his friend had had that at least to come home to; when his master either didn't know or couldn't bring himself to admit that he owed his continued existence to the man he'd been too afraid to call 'friend'.

_Some friend I've been! If anyone deserved the transfer of Gaius' fatherly gestures from me, it was Merlin._

Arthur sighed and was instantly greeted by the physician's cloudy gaze, as his old eyes adjusted from magnified words to the distant face of a King.

"Sire," he greeted, his voice quiet and croaky from disuse, and - Arthur suspected - lack of sleep.

The King took that as the cue to reveal his purpose for being there, and advanced a couple more steps before stopping again; unsure whether to assume his presence was a welcome one.

"Um, I thought you might like some lunch," he said, raising the silver tray a little higher, like the proverbial white flag it was intended to be. There were no empty dishes nor half-eaten food on the table, so Arthur was hopeful that he was not the only one to have worked through lunch, and therefore his offering would not be rejected.

He was rewarded with the formation of crinkles at the sides of the old man's eyes and the sound of two pebbles rattling in a tin cup that was his half-hearted chuckle, and Arthur quickly closed the distance between them; pulling out the stool he found under the table so that he could sit opposite his childhood comforter. Taking the lid off the tray, he immediately picked up a slice of still-warm bread and a chunk of cheese (knowing the physician would have too much decorum to presume to help himself to the food before his King did) and bit into them. Gaius watched him for a couple of heartbeats longer before doing the same.

While they ate in a slightly stifling - though companionable - silence, Arthur let his eyes wander over the things in his immediate surroundings. He tried to decipher the nature of the book Gaius was reading, but like most of the items of information in the Physician's chambers, they made as little sense to him as a woman's mind did to an adolescent, and so he abandoned the task. The rest of the table was covered in the usual plethora of nick-knacks, tools, containers and herb remnants, and Arthur pondered for a moment whether it had been the physician who had nurtured his ward's terrible housekeeping habits or the other way round.

Returning his scrutiny to the plate, his left eye was snagged by a glint of silver, and moving his head in that direction with a hint of foresight, his two eyes together confirmed what one alone could not. Arthur swallowed hard, as if by doing so he could suppress the guilt that was currently scraping at the walls of his stomach, along with his now curdling bread and cheese. He subconsciously pulled back an inch or two from the gleaming hunks of metal, and Gaius - noticing his movement and apprehension - followed his gaze.

Clearing his throat loudly, the old man dropped his eyes back to the book (though by then it was clear that he wasn't reading it, and probably hadn't been from the moment Arthur stepped into the room) and said, "I believe those are yours, sire." His voice - like the room all of a sudden - had turned cold; his words sharp as stalactites.

Arthur didn't bother trying to smother the wince and flush to his cheeks. _I deserved that_. He couldn't bring himself to look back at the items sitting there on the table; like a severed head. Not that he was spared any blame by avoiding them, but if he didn't look, he could at least breathe and keep the nausea somewhat at bay. He felt eyes on him and glanced up to find the physician studying him; an unreadable expression on his face.

"You might want to know a few things before you use them again, though," Gaius said, his tone the same as the one he used for phrases like 'Arthur, why _did_ you climb that apple tree when your nurse placed a perfectly edible bowl of fruit in your chambers this morning?' And Arthur's face bore the same mixed expression of contriteness and resignation that it had done after _that_ disastrous escapade.

Even though his father's voice screamed in his mind that the physician had forgotten his place, if he thought he had the right to lecture his King (as Arthur knew the man was about to do), he gave no indication that he was not listening. Of course he was never going to use those...'things' again; the thought of merely touching them sent shivers down his spine. What had he been thinking?!

With no preamble, Gaius launched into his diatribe (that was quite obviously planned and was simply awaiting the perfect opportunity to be executed). "I've been doing some research into the origins of these...'items'," he began, indicating them with a flippant flick of his finger, but not deigning them with a look. "They were created by a sorcerer named 'Adhemar'."

Arthur put every effort into not reacting as he had been taught to the word 'sorcerer', and to instead show that he was keen to listen and learn - without prejudice - from now on. Even if some thought his open-mindedness a bit too late.

"According to the archives, dated back to the early days of the Purge, your father had him imprisoned for attempting to cure his niece of a particularly severe bout of Ignis Sacer. He was sentenced to death by fire, as was his brother, who had asked for his help to save his daughter's life. In exchange for his brother's freedom and the rest of his family being spared for harbouring a sorcerer, he agreed to perform a singular act of sorcery for Uther."

At this, Arthur frowned and leaned away from the old man, as if distancing himself from his words would prevent their implication from sinking in. Did his father really do this? Was he truly such a hypocrite as to have used sorcery for his own gain when it suited him, while spouting its ills to the masses? But the more he thought about it, the less reason he could find for Gaius to lie. He'd never lied to Arthur before (apart from all those times he'd said Merlin was down the tavern when it was quite clear now that he wasn't); not about anything important anyway. And he had never tried to slander Uther's name; not even when he was falsely accused of sorcery or had his skills questioned in light of Edwin Muirden's supposedly superior ones. He was loyal to the crown - first to Uther and then to his son - and following the recent fiasco surrounding his kidnapping, Arthur was determined never to let his gut-led trust of the man to waver again.

Arthur's voice - as pinched and uncertain of wanting to know the details as his face showed - quietly asked, "What did my father have him do?"

Gaius looked down at the table for a moment, seeming to be as reluctant to divulge the information as Arthur was to receive it. But Arthur knew that while some things were better left unsaid, most truths had to be heard - uncomfortable as they were - if he was to make the decisions worthy of a King.

Finally, Gaius raised his head again, looked directly into the eyes of his monarch and with a small sigh said, "Although, like all sorcerers, Adhemar had varying levels of ability in a number of areas of magic, he specialised in enchantments of the mind. If he so wished it, he could enchant a man to forget who he was, believe he could fly, or hate another man enough to kill him."

Arthur's eyes grew wide with horror at the very idea of someone having such power over another, and how it could be abused (and not just by the one who wielded it), but before he could muse too deeply on his dark thoughts, Gaius continued.

"The manacles had been made by a gifted - though not magical - blacksmith. Uther had Adhemar imbue them with an enchantment - or more likely, a few of them - to have the effects he desired. The manacles work by binding a sorcerer's magic to himself. If the sorcerer tries to use his magic for even the most basic of spells, his magic is reflected back on him at the same strength that he cast it, though I suspect that the enchantment actually amplifies what was input; making the output a great deal worse. And of course the stronger the sorcerer, the greater the rebound of his magic on himself."

Arthur closed his eyes and breathed out heavily through his nose; the guilt he had felt before he had entered the room increasing ten-fold, as he asked himself for what seemed the hundredth time what had possessed him to so much as touch the loathsome things. Never mind place them on his friend. The justifications - that he simply hadn't known at the time what the manacles would do, nor how powerful Merlin was - sounded pathetic enough in his own mind. Not even he was enough of a prat to speak them aloud. He opened his eyes again to find Gaius' fixed on him, and filled with an odd mix of sympathy and satisfaction. Arthur knew though that the physician would not feel this way for having brought him pain. Gaius had never been the sort of man to gain vindication from seeing a wrong-doer punished. It was enough for him to see that his King had the care and understanding to realise the gravity of his own act...and to regret it.

In a voice rough from the turmoil his throat muscles only just held at bay, Arthur prompted, "You said 'effects' - plural - so what else did my father wish for the manacles to do?"

Gaius grimaced; his face seeming to go greyer and more wrinkled than Arthur had seen it since the man had discovered the cuts his ward had inflicted all over his own body. Arthur knew that he was going to like what he heard next even less than what he'd been told so far, and he mentally braced himself for it as the physician drew a deep, calming breath.

"Uther did not just want the sorcerers he caught to be subdued. He wanted them to believe that they were everything _he_ believed them to be. Evil and worthy of hate; deserving death. It was his wish that they should spend their last days on this Earth wracked with remorse for learning magic, and filled with despair. So this was the purpose of the other magic Adhemar infused the Drýcræft Gebinden with. And it was a self-perpetuating enchantment." At Arthur's questioning frown, Gaius elaborated; to the King's growing horror. "The longer the manacles are worn, the more potent their effect. It is not inconceivable to imagine that if they were worn for long enough, the bearer need only be given the means and they would...well, let's just say that if the sorcerer _did_ escape - unlikely as that may be, with the manacles preventing them from using their magic (and the metal is too durable to be removed by force) - they would be of no threat to anyone except...except..."

"Except to themselves," Arthur finished, softly; pinching the bridge of his nose. He didn't need to look at Gaius' face to know he was nodding in an agreement that had been too difficult to voice.

Arthur glared at the manacles; a look of revulsion on his face. He had never felt more at war with his father's methods and teachings. How could Uther have done that? Created something so vile and abominable that a man would hurt himself when using a power that came as naturally to him as taking a breath, and then made him want to kill himself for doing so. Arthur clenched his hands into fists; fighting the desire to grab the cursed metal contraptions and hurl them as far as he could from the top of the tallest tower. But then he remembered the last event that had taken place on that same tower top - the event that had started off this whole, horrendous business - and he instantly sobered; shivering as if he had been drenched by a bucket of ice-cold, murky water. _He_ hadn't even needed to lift a finger to send his friend to the brink of despair; never mind employ the aid of magic-binding devices to achieve the result.

Dare he call himself a friend, when that was what he did to one?

Unlike Gwaine, the physician had not sought to lay blame for what had happened to his ward in Arthur's lap; at least not in a perceptible way. There had been small glances Arthur had caught and in his shame turned away from, in the days since he had woken to find himself surprisingly alive. And they weren't even something that Arthur could label with the words 'your fault'; more 'disappointed' and 'thoughtless', with maybe a 'stupid boy' thrown in for good measure. But that didn't stop Arthur from experiencing remorse all the same. And now the thought of the manacles not only affecting Merlin's magic but his mind - reinforcing and quite likely increasing all those thoughts of self-hatred that had already guided his hand more than once to shorten his own life - made Arthur wonder if he was indeed any better than his father. At least with Uther, the torture had been short-lived; not being one to suffer the presence of a magic-wielder in his precious kingdom for too long. A day or two at most, for the platform to be raised, and a pyre or axeman's block to be set up. None had been granted the reprieve of a trial when it was the King's decree that their guilt was irrefutable.

Not so with his son. For nearly two weeks, Arthur had forced Merlin to endure the pain of having his magic rebound on him (and with Merlin's unsurpassable level of power, the agony would have been greater than all of the manacles' previous wearers put together), as well as have his mind punish him in ways his body could not. The thought of what he had done had Arthur hastily scanning the room for something appropriate to catch the returning version of his recent meal, but finding nothing in sight that could serve as a vomit vessel, Arthur was forced to soothe his stomach with closed eyes and quick, shallow breaths. Leaning towards the tabletop, he dug the fingers of one hand into his knee, using pain to divert attention away from his rolling midsection; the other hand held to his mouth, in case he was unsuccessful.

When the nausea had abated to occasional spikes and hisses in his insides, Arthur opened his eyes to find Gaius' wrinkled and liver-spotted hand departing the steaming cup he had placed before his King. Arthur's nose wrinkled as it was assailed by the scent of lemon balm and mint, but he grabbed the cup anyway and took a large swig; cringing as the liquid scalded his tongue and throat on the way down. Placing the cup back on the table, Arthur looked up to see the physician watching him with a reproving eye as he settled onto his chair again, and he nodded his thanks to the old man.

Arthur's eyes dropped to his fingers as they clenched and tugged at each other in his lap, but still unable to look the guardian of the man he had hurt in the eye, he addressed the area in front of him, in a thick and cracked voice.

"I'm sorry, Gaius. I didn't...I mean, I shouldn't have...well -"

"It's alright, Arthur," Gaius cut in quietly, and the younger man looked up to see a small, proud smile sitting unforced on his old friend's lips. "I understand. And much as I'd like to, I can't blame you."

One side of Arthur's mouth twitched upwards sadly; wishing, but unable to concur with the physician's sentiment.

"You were guided by equally misguided concepts."

Arthur's heart panged and he caught Gaius' steady gaze, like a fish on a hook. Unable to look away, for fear the heaviness multiplying in his chest would burst forth and allow the fluid gathering behind his eyes to drain out, Arthur said (his lip wobbling slightly), "But what do I do now, Gaius?"

The physician sighed and reached a hand across to give the King's forearm a quick squeeze. "Start as you mean to go on. I've said it before, Arthur, but it's worthy of repetition: don't let fear be your driving force, as your father did." He held up a hand to forestall the remark that was bound to accompany the indignant frown creasing the younger man's forehead. "You are better than that, Arthur, as I know Merlin told you many times before. Love: that is what your subjects most admire and wish to emulate in you. Lead them by example, Arthur. Forgive. Accept. Grow. And above all, respect what those who serve you so willingly - and at no small cost to themselves - give, and you will deserve their loyalty and trust. These things must be earned, not received by right of birth. Merlin freely gave you his loyalty, from the first time the two of you met. But with some hard work on your part, you will be granted trust...if you are willing to try."

Arthur huffed ironically. "And how do I do that, Gaius? _How_ do I earn trust? All those years I trusted him, and I thought he did me, yet all along he kept such a huge part of himself secret. And then when I discovered it, I punished him by caging and torturing him."

The physician smiled cryptically and raised an enigmatic eyebrow. "Now what sort of teacher would I be if I gave you _all_ the answers? There are some questions you have to figure out the answer to for yourself, or you will learn nothing. Knowledge must be earned too, sire. Besides," here he patted Arthur's hand and the familiarity was comforting, "I think you already know the answer to that question. You just have to trust in _yourself_ to see it through."

"I was never worthy of his friendship, Gaius," Arthur muttered weakly. "Whatever he offered me, I squandered it or took it for granted, and then laughed at him for it."

Gaius frowned at him; dismayed. "Nonsense, sire! Merlin understood your predicament and he was patient, sire. He knew one day you would be ready to learn the truth and to accept him."

Arthur huffed ironically. "Seems his patience ran out though, didn't it?"

One of Gaius' eyebrows deepened its frown, while the other was raised, like a whip about to be brought down on the rump of a stubborn and disobedient dog. "I won't pretend to know exactly what lead Merlin to do what he did, sire, but I'll tell you one thing: it was never one reason nor one person alone. And it was something none of us could have anticipated or perhaps even prevented, so it does nobody any good to dwell on it. All that matters is that he did not succeed and that all of us will do everything in our power to ensure something like this does not happen again. And not by using force to prevent it, Arthur." Gaius nodded towards the manacles, to which Arthur blushed and shuffled in his seat.

Gaius released his arm and stood up slowly; allowing each kink in his spine to straighten out and each muscle to unknot. "And now if you'll excuse me, I must see to my afternoon rounds. Thank you for the food, Arthur; I had quite lost track of time and with...well..." He glanced across at the closed, small door at the back of the room, a sad look falling over his tired features before he turned back to face the king. "It's easy to forget to prepare food when it's only for myself."

The old man shuffled over to the stool by the main door, where his medicine bag slouched, and lifted the long strap to loop it over his crooked shoulder. He looked back to the King, still sitting hunched at the small table and staring down at nothing in particular while his mind staggered from thought to thought.

"Stay and...finish your tea, Arthur."

By the time the King looked up again, he was alone in the room. Absentmindedly, he reached across and brought the cup to his lips. He grimaced at the coolness and taste as he took another large swallow; his eyes drifting over the cup's rim to the small door his departed host had regarded, with the same melancholy slithering over his throat and chest.

* * *

Arthur stared at the picture of a plant, pinned on the wall of the humble room so long ago that when he lifted a detached corner, he could see a paler shade of stained plaster the same shape and size as the parchment beneath. Either the hand that had drawn it had not been particularly skilled, or it was the strangest specimen of the plant kingdom that Arthur had ever set eyes upon. In fact, had he seen a 'Mandrake' (as the untidy scrawl had labelled it) in person - or worse, been handed one as part of a meal - he would likely have chucked it at the head of the one who gave it to him. Or used it as ammunition against cheeky manservants; though that would probably amount to the same thing, given a certain servant's track record at giving him things dubiously entitled 'food'. Arthur wrinkled his nose at the drawing and turned to find the next item that would snag his interest and hold back boredom for a few minutes longer; one hand clasping the wrist of the other, behind his back.

Unfortunately, he'd become as familiar with the four walls and their contents as he was with those of his own chambers (considering he'd had no idea of this room's existence seven years ago), and so there was nothing to be seen that he hadn't seen numerous times already. Stopping by the desk beneath the window, he looked down at the bunch of fading purple flowers, and his eyes were naturally drawn to the tankard of water they sat in. A momentary smile shaped his mouth at the combined gift provided by two well-wishers. No doubt Gwaine had been smug about the excuse to hastily drain the vessel of its original contents - in front of a glaring physician - so as to spare Gwen a lengthy search to find something better to contain her offering that she hadn't thought to bring a vase for when she'd picked them from an obliging field.

They were wilting now; a small puddle of spent blooms beginning to accumulate around the base of the tankard. Not that it mattered, when the intended recipient was not in a position to appreciate them, and in fact hadn't been since before the flowers were picked and the ale poured.

Arthur sighed and looked back over his shoulder at the bed in the centre of the room; a small frown forming a faint 'V' above his nose. But of course the man on the bed had no idea that he was silently being chided for spending too much time unconscious again and could therefore not grant the King his favour in asking what was wrong, or whether he could do something to help. Anything really, as long as it got the conversation started. Instead of just lying there, looking pale and frail; like he wouldn't have the strength to hum the first line of his favourite ditty, never mind hold the length of conversation Arthur knew was well overdue (and which he now thoroughly regretted having failed to summon up the courage to have before...all this happened).

It still hurt Arthur - deep down in the core of his soul where no-one, not even Guinevere, could reach - that his friend had kept such a huge part of himself hidden. But the more he had pondered, fretted and lost sleep about it, the more he had come to realise that Merlin had never really lied. He couldn't have lied, because he was never directly _asked_ if he was a sorcerer. He may have been accused of being one - more than once - but Arthur couldn't actually recall a moment when Merlin was asked the question "Are you a sorcerer?" nor given the chance to confirm or deny the accusation. Someone had always stepped in - himself, Gaius or whoever - and defended him. Whether it was because they didn't believe the truth, or feared it, had become blurred over the years; unimportant. There had even been a couple of times when Merlin had proclaimed the truth...loudly and publicly. And again, it had been others - not the secret warlock - who had shouted the denials. Because even if what he said _was_ true, Merlin's life had come to mean more to the deniers than the truth. If the truth meant his death, then they coveted the lies, for their role in continuing his existence.

If anything, Merlin had been inadvisably honest with him over the years they had known each other.

"_Prat!" "Ass!" "Clotpole!"_

He had said the things that Arthur _needed_ to hear, even if he didn't want to. He had been the most candid of mirrors; showing Arthur what he needed to see, even if in his mind he saw something more gilded, or less worthy. Merlin had filled in the gaps of the sketches Arthur had drawn of his world, because there were many things he had learned to gloss over. The details Merlin provided gave the completed pictures a vibrancy Arthur had been unaware existed until then. And when his vision had begun to blur, it was Merlin who gave him the much needed whack over the head to clear it again.

_What sort of a King would I be now, if not for him?_

Arthur had never liked the night before a battle. There was too much time to worry about his men, to mentally tear apart every plan and question every decision he'd ever made. So many times he had paced away the night, craving only the dawn, when there would be no more time for doubts or changes or making impossible wishes. Because once the sun rose, all he could do was hope for the best, and that any errors he'd made or aspects he'd overlooked didn't come back and haunt him. That was why he wanted - no, needed - Merlin to wake up now. If this agonising wait was over, there wouldn't be any more room for self-doubt.

He was not afraid. Well, not exactly. Not of talking to Merlin, anyway. Because Merlin was his friend, and friends did not fear one another. So why did he feel the need to shield himself with humour and lies when he spoke to his friend? He was only deferring the inevitable if he thought he could keep his true feelings - his vulnerability - hidden, especially from the man who had not left his side from almost the day they had met. If he could face a Questing Beast, dragon, or army of immortals without allowing fear to stay his sword, why did he find it so damned hard to show concern, admiration or gratitude for the one who had faced all those challenges with him and whose only weapon had to be used with discretion, for fear of being killed by those he defended? Was it truly a weakness to show that he cared and could be hurt?

Merlin had earned his honesty, and not just because he had saved the life of his King more times than he cared to count. Nor was it because he had shown more loyalty and bravery than the fiercest and most devoted of his knights, and was willing to make the ultimate sacrifice to spare the life of another. No, it was high time Arthur acknowledged the fact that he shared a kinship with the strange little Escetian. It was something that for too long he had either not understood or when he did, declared as untrue. But no more.

_Wake up, Idiot, so I can let you know that I _do_ care and how sorry I am for the pain I've caused you. I need to thank you for always being at my side, because I lied all those times I told you I didn't want or need you there. It is _I_ who has always been the liar in our friendship, and I don't want to be one anymore._

_Open your eyes, Merlin, so you can see the King you have helped me be. How can we work on that destiny of yours - together - unless you get up, you lazy sod? It's my destiny too, you know, and I need your help to achieve it, so...so you need to get well again. Please? There, I've done it - I can be polite - so now you have to do as I say!_

Merlin's slowly rising and falling chest and soft breaths seemed almost a treasonous refusal of his master's heart-felt and desperate pleas. But they were all the response he had received since the first time he had blundered rashly down to the physician's chambers to see for himself that the old man had not been lying about his ward's condition (to prevent his King's recovery from taking a backwards step). For words did not carry the same impact as sight. And though he had afterwards wondered how the hell he was going to get back to his own chambers on legs that refused to bear his weight another dizzying step, the relief at seeing the sluggish chest movements beneath a blood-stained bandage, and feeling the weak but regular pulse beneath greedy fingertips, had given Arthur back his own breath; calmed his skittish heart.

Arthur recalled the conversation with Gaius that had followed on that day. And like the one that took place scarcely an hour ago, the knowledge he had gained still sat like a rich and heavy meal in his stomach, and Arthur knew that just as when he partook of such food, he would be kept awake long into the night; plagued by indigestion and regretting his lack of self-control.

"_He's doing fine, Arthur," Gaius said, though there was something in his tone that reminded the King of all those times Merlin had blatantly covered up an injury or mistake. And Arthur set no more store by the guardian's words than he did by the ward's._

_The old man stood with arms folded, in the doorway of Merlin's room; glaring pointedly at his royal patient for leaving his own bed to sit by his servant's. And when it became clear - by the steady and brazen way the King returned his gaze - that he was not going to follow his physician's orders any more religiously on this occasion than the previous ones, Gaius let out a loud, suffering sigh and sat on the stool, on the opposite side of his ward's bed._

"_As well as can be expected, anyway, for a man who was half-stabbed by a non-existent magical knife."_

_Arthur's face grew paler than it already was from his own convalescence, and his eyes widened as he voiced the first of many questions that the physician's statement had sparked to life in his mind. "_Half_-stabbed?"_

"_Yes, sire" Gaius replied, and then leaning forwards to rest his elbows on his knees, he steepled his fingers over his lap and looked into his ward's comatose face. "Merlin tried every spell he knew to heal you, but each one failed because your wound was too deep and your life-force almost spent. His only options left were to sit there and watch you die (something it is not in his heart to ever allow) or to-"_

"_Take the wound on himself," Arthur finished with a groan; gripping his forehead and closing his eyes. He recalled hearing of such things that healers with magic could do, but had never really believed anyone would go to that length to save the life of another. "The fool!" he muttered. "What was he thinking?"_

"_Well, sire," Gaius began, an acerbic bite to his tone, "I suppose he was thinking he'd rather not see you die!"_

_Arthur shook his head and said (a little louder than he'd intended, but he could feel his anger rising and didn't really have the strength or inclination to contain it), "And you think sacrificing himself was a good idea?"_

_Gaius didn't say anything for a while, though he didn't need to, when his face hid nothing of the war that waged on it. On one side was his loyalty to the King; the boy he had helped birth and bring up. On the other was the son of his friends, whom he had sheltered, mentored and grown to love...and who was the hope of all those - like himself - with magic. It was the epitome of the impossible choice, and Merlin had made the same choice Arthur knew he would have made without hesitation: to save the life of his brother, whatever the cost._

"_Of course not," Gaius muttered bitterly. "But you are the King and, well...when the silly boy gets an idea in his head, it's rather difficult to talk him out of it." _

_Gaius' voice had withered and broken over the course of his defensive reply, and seeing the bleak look that fell over the man's face had immediately doused the flames of Arthur's ire; leaving his chest a burnt-out hollow. He was only too familiar with the painful results of Merlin's rash, spur-of-the-moment decisions, made without thought for the people who would miss his presence more than it was in his nature to accept._

_Arthur sighed heavily and rubbed at his temples, where a growing discomfort had suddenly decided to turn itself into a headache. "So we're right back to where we started: Merlin still places no value on his own life." He didn't bother trying to keep the frustration from his voice._

_Gaius hummed, but not in agreement. "I'm not certain that's true, sire."_

_Arthur looked up sharply from the spot in his lap he had been studying avidly; hope dawning in his eyes. "What do you mean?"_

"_For a start, I said '_half_-stabbed', because that's literally what he did." At Arthur's confused frown, the physician ploughed on with his explanation. "There are two spells Merlin could have used, in order to take your injury on himself, and they would potentially have very different results. The first allows him to transfer the whole wound; the second, only to share it."_

_Arthur's frown smoothed out and his eyebrows arched up as comprehension began to take hold. Gaius nodded, with a content smile for the King's conclusion._

"_When I examined him, I found that though the wound was in the exact same place as your own, it was not as deep. And as you know, there is only a small trace left of your injury, sire. It is my belief that Merlin took on half of the wound, making yours shallow enough for his spells to heal you, and with every intention of healing his share of it afterwards."_

"_W-well why the hell didn't the idiot do so, then," Arthur spluttered with disbelief, "if you think he doesn't mean himself harm anymore?"_

"_Ah well," Gaius replied, pausing to glance at the bandages wrapped tightly around Merlin's wrists, hiding the badly burned skin there. He sighed with resignation before returning his reluctant gaze to the King's demanding one. "His body and magic were already significantly weakened, and I'm afraid that casting the spell to share your pain before healing you of your half of it just about finished him off."_

_Arthur blanched at this, feeling suddenly light-headed. When Gaius - with Gwaine's unnecessary and quite frankly contemptuous commentary - had informed the King of all that had occurred from the moment he'd lost consciousness, Arthur had been rendered speechless for a full ten minutes. Or, more to the point, all that Merlin had suffered in order to save his life, thanks to a combination of the manacles and his innate stubbornness._

_When he had finally forced his voice back into use, to ask the questions that burned on his tongue, what was left of it was barely loud enough to be heard by a sharp eared rabbit; never mind an elderly man and an angry knight who didn't want to listen. He had had no idea how violent or painful the reaction would be to the wearer on having the devices removed, but then - he reminded himself - any sorcerer he'd seen subdued by them had been executed wearing them. The key was not even required as a rule, when the metal bands could easily be slipped over charred and withered hand bones or from wrists parted from the corpse by the same axe that had removed its head. Only when they needed to be placed on their next victim did the manacles need unlocking._

_Gaius had told him how close they had come to losing Merlin, through a combination of blood loss and dreadfully low energy reserves. He had been barely alive when Gaius had recovered enough from being flung away and knocked unconscious by the outburst of Merlin's suddenly-freed magic. Between them, a frantic Gaius and dumbstruck Gwaine had managed to staunch the blood flowing from the stab wound that Merlin's spell had created, stitched it closed and stabilised him sufficiently to move him back to his own bed. But that did not stop the young man from spending the next couple of days worrying all his friends sick that they wouldn't get the chance to both scold him for his stupidity and admire him for his bravery in preventing the assassin from succeeding on his second attempt._

_At least, that was the story Gaius and Gwaine had concocted on the spur of the moment, when word was spread that Merlin was lingering at death's door once more. Thankfully, fewer questions had been asked regarding the King's speedy recovery. Arthur supposed that most were either too glad of the result to question the method, or assumed that some form of sorcery was involved. But since suggesting the Royal family was in any way associated with such practices had been tantamount to treason during Uther's reign, discourse on the matter had so far not reached Arthur's ears._

_Noticing the King's change in colour and the fact he was starting to sway slightly, Gaius hastily suggested, "Sire, perhaps you should lie down for a bit?" And then with a more admonishing air, he added, "You are still supposed to be recovering yourself. Merlin may have been able to stop you losing anymore of it, but there isn't a spell in existence that can replace the blood you'd already lost."_

_Arthur closed his eyes and shook his head; raising a reassuring hand, even as he fought against both a dizzy spell and his aching head. "I'm fine, Gaius." He ignored the physician's sceptical snort as he breathed in through his nose and out through his mouth enough times to feel the thuds of his heart slow to something a lot less swoon-threatening._

_Eventually, he opened his eyes to see the physician still looking at him; worry darkening his grey eyes. Arthur forced as genuine a smile as he could manage to sit on his lips, just until the concern faded from the old man's face, before he let it fall away again._

_After a minute or two of silence, Arthur ventured, "Do you really think Merlin might be feeling better - about himself, I mean - just because he didn't take the whole wound?" His eyebrows raised with the hope that fluttered in his chest, like a moth latching onto any light source, in its desperation to find the moon._

_Gaius gave him a small smile, filled with as much optimism as he could muster. "Who knows how he might be feeling, sire, now that you know of his secret, have not yet condemned him for it, and have been on the receiving end of its more beneficial aspects. If the son of Uther can be convinced to see the good in magic, then I believe an all-powerful warlock can be persuaded to see the good in himself." Gaius' look turned shrewd. He raised his brow, like a knight's fist holding a gauntlet, ready to throw it to the ground. "There's only one way to find out, sire, isn't there?"_

With an exasperated sigh, Arthur grasped the back of the chair that sat a pace away from the bed and dragged it closer. The resultant scrape of worn wood on stone made him shoot a glance at the silent patient; one eyebrow lifted in expectation. But the sound had not roused the raven-haired man in the slightest, and so with a huff of annoyance, Arthur flopped onto the chair; wriggling his behind deeper into its embrace as he settled down to wait until either his servant stopped being such a stubborn sod or his guardian returned and chased the foolish King back to his own chambers amidst lectures on the importance of proper rest

Arthur couldn't disagree that he had been tiring more easily in the last few days, though he was making a steady improvement; able to stay awake later and later in the evening, without the need for a mid-afternoon nap (in his bed when he decided to listen to Gaius, at his desk when he usually didn't). He was therefore just beginning to doze off - his head having sunk further and further forwards until his chin was nestling in the ties of his tunic - when a change in the monotonous rhythm of sounds in the room startled him back to wakefulness. He rubbed his eyes to clear the last of the lingering fog before turning his attention to where the interruption had come from. Merlin was smacking his lips, and his respiration was no longer so deep and slow. Like he was about to...

Arthur yanked his feet down from where they'd been crossed on the bed; allowing the chair's two front legs to become reacquainted with the floor with a resonating 'thud'. He leaned forwards in nervous anticipation; his face only a short distance from Merlin's as the other man smacked his lips again. Arthur looked up; his eyes darting around the room and he cursed when he discovered Gaius' efficiency lacking for once. Leaping out of the chair quickly enough to shove it back with a cringe-worthy screech, Arthur scooted out the room; cursing again when he almost fell down the steps to the main floor of the chambers in his haste.

Less than half a minute later, he was bursting back into the room; breathing a little heavily as he placed the clay cup on the table by Merlin's bed. He filled it from the small jug his other hand held, and then set it beside the cup; flopping back in the chair and bracing his elbows on his knees. Arthur looked down, absently noting the floor's desperate need to be swept as his hands raked through messy blonde locks.

A prickling sensation at the top of his head made him look up suddenly...straight into the pair of blue eyes regarding him. For a moment, he returned the gaze; too many words crammed in his throat for even a single one to be released. Distractedly, he reached for the clay cup and brought it to his lips; his every movement followed by the steady blue gaze, and as Arthur took a large gulp of water, a single, raven eyebrow arched up.

Merlin opened his mouth to speak, but the only noise that came out was something redolent of a draft squeezing through the gap of a door with unoiled hinges. Arthur lowered the cup with an apologetic smile and held it out to Merlin. The dark-haired man tried to push himself up far enough on one elbow so that he was in a better position to not simply give himself a bed bath, but with a pained whimper he stopped; hand reaching instead to clutch at the bandaged area of his chest.

"Here, let me," Arthur muttered gruffly, and placing the cup back on the table, he stood and carefully pushed Merlin's upper torso forwards to bolster his back with an upended pillow. The King placed the cup in his servant's hand as he sat down, and Merlin stared at it a moment, as if unsure how it got there or what to do with it, before he started to lift it.

On seeing, however, how shaky his servant's hand was, and doubting the vessel would arrive at its destination with much - if any - of its contents, Arthur rolled his eyes and exhaled loudly as he grabbed it back again.

"Are you always going to be this difficult, _Mer_lin?" he said, though the note of fondness in his voice wasn't particularly well hidden anymore, as he brought the cup to Merlin's lips and held it there while the younger man took several desperate gulps.

Throat freshly moistened, Merlin managed to mumble a raspy "Thanks", when Arthur took the cup away. The room became quiet once more, and both men took greater interest in the bed's covers than in allowing their eyes to meet.

Finally, when the silence had turned into a roaring wave in their ears, Arthur decided to break it...at the exact same moment as Merlin did.

"How are you feeling?" they chorused. Arthur grinned. Merlin blushed, and averted his gaze again.

"I'm fine, thanks to you," Arthur said, trying not to let the unspoken reprimand overshadow his gratitude. "You?"

The object of his scrutiny plucked at a loose thread in the blanket; his eyes downcast. "M'fine, sire," he replied quietly and then winced when he shifted his position slightly and pulled on the stitched skin beneath the bandages.

Arthur rolled his eyes again and grimaced. "Yeah, right, of course you are. I thought you might be done by now with the lies, _Mer_lin, but I guess I was wrong." He tried...he really did, to keep the contempt from his voice, but he couldn't help feeling the stab of disappointment - accompanied by its partner, anger - in his chest.

"I said I was fine," Merlin said defensively, but still he would not meet the King's eye.

Arthur sighed, shook his head and ran his hands through his hair irritatedly. "We've got to stop doing this, Merlin."

"Doing what?" Merlin mumbled noncommittally after a second or two, though there was a hint of genuinely not having a clue what Arthur meant, as well as interest in where the conversation was headed.

The King's lips twitched, as if he had just reminded himself not to smile, and instead frowned as a means of forcing his face not to betray him.

"You getting hurt saving me, and me worrying over you."

He let the statement wriggle and squirm in the air for a moment, like a worm on a hook, before he raised a challenging brow; hoping the bait would be taken. He had to keep a firm grip on his features when Merlin raised his eyes to his; his mouth opening and shutting a couple of times, making him look like the hungry fish Arthur needed him to be (and supposedly replaying the King's words in his head to be sure he hadn't misheard).

"You were worried about me?" Merlin's voice, while rough and thin, like one of his homespun and worn-too-many-times tunics, was somewhat strengthened by incredulity.

Arthur pursed his lips and looked away from Merlin. He could think of a hundred reasons why he should retract his statement, or smother it in dismissive banter, but only one why he should not. And looking at Merlin's almost pleading stare for vindication of past hopes and dreams, Arthur did not need to waste any more time ruminating.

"Yes." His voice when he spoke was small, hesitant, but as soon as the single word floated away from him, like smoke from a blown-out candle, Arthur realised how truly he meant it. And his heart swelled with relief. Merlin's next question, however, caused his stomach muscles to clench.

"Why?"

_Must I _really_ spell it out to you? Do you _still_ think so little of yourself?_ And it was Arthur's turn to look incredulous. Until he remembered all the times he had scoffed a reply; quashing similarly-phrased appeals for merit from his servant. He began to shake his head but then stopped; realising that the gesture could - and, knowing Merlin, would - be mistaken for a negation of his confirmation.

Therefore it was with tightened fists, a determined pout and fast-beating heart that he said, "Because, _Mer_lin, you're my friend, and I can't keep nearly losing you."

Merlin said nothing, but continued to stare at him, his face blank and hard to read. Arthur swallowed hard, a sudden and unexpected feeling of nervousness clawing at his stomach. _How ridiculous! That the truth can be harder to give voice to than a complicated and badly constructed lie._ But it was not like he was alone in committing that sin. Perhaps he had - up until that point - been giving a bad example, to a vulnerable and easily mislead victim of his own lack of self confidence? If he was to be the leader everyone said he either was (because they were afraid to show their true opinions) or could be (because they hoped and willed him to be so), then he had to lead by example. A good one.

"I'm sorry, Merlin."

Dark eyebrows almost touched a raven hairline, and Arthur felt ashamed that his words could incite such disbelief.

"For what?" came the whispered reply. It was as if they were passing a ball to one another; each standing either side of a high wall. Arthur was thankful that so far, the ball had not been dropped and allowed to roll away, as it had been in every one of their more recent conversations. At least if Merlin was willing to stay in the game, Arthur might have a chance to redeem himself in his friend's eyes.

"For...not trusting you." He paused, wondering whether to allow all the answers to Merlin's question to escape the habitual confines of his head. But before his courage could fail him again and clamp his mouth shut, the words spilled forth. And like grain from a split sack, they would not stop. "For not being there. For allowing you to face danger and grief alone. For hurting you with my fears, my anger and my misunderstanding. For not showing you how important you are to Camelot and to...well, to me. For being my father's son. For...for being...a prat."

"You think one sorry covers all that?"

The small, upwards quirk to Merlin's lips made Arthur's heart soar, and taking it as his cue to drop at least some of the uncomfortable seriousness of the conversation, he ventured, "Hey, don't push your luck, _Mer_lin. Those stocks have been standing empty for far too long."

Merlin lifted a hand to his chest, over the site of the vicious, half-passed-on knife wound. "You would punish an injured man?!" he said, in a mock-shocked voice.

"Weeell," Arthur drawled, "I might give you a _few_ days to get your strength back first."

"How generous, _sire_!" Merlin replied sarcastically.

Arthur's face split into a full blown grin, already revelling in the direction the conversation was headed. This was much more like things should be between the two of them! "I thought so, yes. You're lucky; I could have you -"

"Burnt at the stake? Beheaded? Banished? Pick a 'B'."

Arthur faltered; his ribald reply caught on the nail of fear and disappointment sticking out at the end of his tongue. _Please don't do this, Merlin, not when we were making progress at last._ "Th-those aren't the normal sentences for being insolent, Merlin," he said; a slight quaver in his voice as he desperately tried to keep the mood light.

But Merlin wasn't having any of it. With all trace of mirth now washed from his features, and in a low tone, he muttered, "They are for my kind. For sorcerers."

And suddenly Arthur felt an overwhelming combination of anger and determination rush through his veins. _ I've had quite enough of this nonsense, and it's bloody well going to end right now! _ "You know what, _Mer_lin, I could just have those stocks moved to this room. I'm sure we could round up a long line of people only too willing to forego waiting for you to recover for presuming to tell your King how to run his kingdom!" Arthur raised his eyebrows, not entirely certain his threat was in jest.

Merlin's face scrunched up with confusion. "I don't underst-"

"What _I_ do with sorcerers in _my_ kingdom is for me to decide, _not_ you, _Mer_lin," Arthur broke in and glared - not all that playfully - at the warlock.

The younger man's jaw dropped open and closed again several times, as if he was trying to chew a soggy leather shoe. "B-but the law..?" he said faintly.

"_I_ am the law!" Arthur countered, frowning fiercely. "And it's up to me to decide if, when and for whom I should break it."

"And the council? The people?"

"Need never know," Arthur replied firmly; staring pointedly at Merlin.

Merlin's eyes widened with disbelief. "But that's treason!"

Arthur had to clench his fists at his sides to stop himself from cuffing the man on the side of the head. "No, it's called 'helping my friend keep his secret'. Because, let's face it, you're terrible at keeping them on your own." He quirked an eyebrow up, and held it there a few seconds; watching Merlin's face avidly for a reaction to his taunt.

When the warlock opened his mouth again though, Arthur couldn't suppress his stomach's roiling at what he said.

"But I'm dangerous; a threat to everyone. I've killed people, and might do so again. You nearly died because of me!"

And suddenly, Arthur's hold on his anger slipped from his grasp, like the reins of a rearing, unbroken horse. He leaned forwards, unconcerned with the fact that Merlin shrunk back a little, fear quickening his breaths and widening his eyes. It was all Arthur could do not to grasp his friend's hunched shoulders and shake him hard, until all the nonsense his mouth kept spouting fell onto the bed beneath them and slunk into the darkest recesses of the room where it belonged

"Now let's get one thing straight, Merlin, before I assign you to clean out every latrine in the castle with your own comb. I did _not_ nearly die because of you - that was Odin, or Morgana, or whoever decided to pay someone to kill me; take your pick. You. Saved. Me! With magic. Again. And I'm grateful. So will you stop being such a Clotpole!" Merlin opened his mouth to speak, but Arthur beat him to it. "And before you tell me that that's your word, let me remind you that I'm the King, and I can bloody well take it if I want to! As for whatever threat you think you pose, I'm willing to take that risk. Do you think I don't feel guilty, or ever forget any of the people I have killed? Or worry about sending my men into battle for me? Or lie awake at night thinking about how the families of all those who've died attacking or defending me are going to survive the next winter without their fathers or sons to provide for them?

"I cannot disagree that magic is dangerous, but no more so than the people and creatures you fight with it. I, for one, feel much safer knowing I have you not as my enemy but as my friend. It is my friends for whom I fight...and yes kill. But it is a worse crime to stand by and let my enemies hurt my friends. I have no wish for you to be my enemy, Merlin, so if you hurt one of my friends again, I will string you upside down in the dungeon by your toenails!"

"B-but I c-could never...w-would never -" Merlin stuttered, gulping continuously to try and moisten a throat made dry again.

"But you _did_, Merlin. You tried to kill my best friend." Arthur could almost see the wheels and cogs gathering speed in Merlin's head as his face rumpled further and he slowly shook his head in denial.

"I'M TALKING ABOUT YOU, DOLLOPHEAD!" Arthur shouted with exasperation.

After slowing his breaths and uncoiling his shrunken torso little by little - either because he was finally beginning to comprehend or because the position he'd forced it into was starting to cause him pain (Arthur hoped it was the former), Merlin said hesitantly, "S-so you'd harbour a sorcerer?"

"MERLIN!" This time he actually raised his hands in a phantom hold of his servant; his fingers curled in on themselves as they dug into imagined skinny biceps. "What _is_ it with you? When I _don't_ acknowledge our friendship, you get upset, and when I _do_, you won't let me. You're such a bloody girl, _Mer_lin!"

"Am not!" Merlin mumbled, pouting at the same time as his shoulders finished unfurling and he shuffled back into his pillow disgruntledly.

"Oh yeah?" Arthur replied, folding his arms and leaning back in his chair with one eyebrow arched sarcastically. "I bet if I looked under your floorboards, I'd find a dress and girdle stashed away."

For a handful of seconds, Merlin looked shocked and scared, and Arthur's heart began to quicken its pace again with concern that he might accidentally have stumbled on a secret he'd really rather not be privy to. But then Merlin appeared to come to a decision, shrugged his shoulders, and - attempting to sound nonchalant - said, "Go ahead and look if you like."

With a relieved sigh and abrupt desire to childishly call his friend's bluff, Arthur slipped off the chair and onto his knees. Holding Merlin's gaze until the last second, and forcing a blank expression onto his face (despite the nervousness he saw twitch his friend's cheek and clench two fistfuls of blanket in his hands), Arthur bent down and took a closer look at the floor beneath the bed.

Surprisingly, it wasn't the pit of lost souls that Arthur had expected it to be, and he mused that unlike most people, who hid things under their bed in an effort to give the impression that the rest of their room was tidy, Merlin was content to leave his mess for all the world to see. Therefore, apart from a sea of dust, an odd sock that looked like it could have given any one of Gwaine's a run for his money, and a screwed up piece of parchment, it was barren of anything incriminating.

Still, he had to go along with this game they'd started, if for no other reason than it might help lift Merlin's spirits enough to keep him from crawling back into the dark cave where he had stored all his problems - including himself - for too long. Ducking his whole head under the bed, Arthur intended to keep it there only a minute or so - just sufficient time to make Merlin wonder what he was up to. However, once they'd adjusted to the darkness, his hunter's eyes couldn't help noticing one particular floorboard that was more scratched along the edges than its neighbours, and with a suspiciously convenient, finger-breadth sized missing knot. With his curiosity warring against slight trepidation that he was about to discover something about his friend he might instantly regret - even more damning, perhaps than his magic - Arthur reached out, thrust his finger in the hole and pulled the board up.

He was almost...almost disappointed when the contents of the secret storage space turned out to be nothing more incongruous than a book, a wood carving of a dragon that seemed strangely familiar (though he couldn't place why), and a staff which he did recognise as being the one belonging to Lady Sophia. He suppressed a shudder at the memory - only recently revised (by Merlin) to something even more sinister than he remembered - of the woman he nearly eloped with. Reaching carefully past what he hadn't known at the time was a magical weapon (though how he could have missed it, he couldn't for the life of him fathom, given the blue stone and the runes scrawled on the thing), he picked up the book; drawing it and himself out from under the bed. Arthur created a small dust cloud when he shook his head, but he paid it no heed as he sat back on the chair and plonked the tatty book on the bed beside Merlin. He looked up into the other man's eyes for any signs of distress at the discovery, but Merlin's face remained blank; reactionless. So he opened the book and began to flip through the pages.

It was a very old and worn book, with metals clasps and reinforced corners. As Arthur flipped haphazardly through its pages, his eyes roamed over the delicate leaves, trying to pick up the odd word here and there to ascertain its purpose. He couldn't understand the writing, it being one that neither he nor anyone else in Camelot had been _legally_ taught for more than two decades, but he did recognise it. Arthur looked up through his messy fringe to meet Merlin's eyes.

"You said no more secrets and lies, Arthur."

He could tell by the waver in Merlin's voice that his heart and stomach must be going through the same fearful dance as his own, though for different reasons. The other man looked at him impassively; one side of his mouth twitching up briefly, tentatively, and Arthur knew, with an epiphanic jolt, that this was his friend's mask of silent appeal for acceptance. And so trying to force his skipping and twirling innards to go against their instinctive need to flee or burn the magical book, he continued leafing through it.

Taking a little longer to peruse the exquisitely illuminated spells and potion recipes, his eye was snagged by a familiar scrawl in the margins. 'Don't forget to remove afterwards!' was scribbled next to a picture of what looked like a glowing pouch with runes drawn on and around it, while 'Doesn't work, use potion' was scrawled next to an illustration of an old man turning into a younger one. Having heard the stories of Merlin's heroics now, it only took these one or two tiny sparks for Arthur's memories - of the events the notes referred to - to ignite. A smirk appeared unbidden on his face, when it occurred to him that even someone who was so powerful, he could virtually bring a man back from the dead, could make mistakes and have problems mastering his craft.

Arthur shoved the book away from him and into Merlin's lap, before sitting upright and leaning back in the chair. Folding his arms and crossing his feet on the edge of the bed again, he flicked his chin in the direction of the book and said, "Show me."

Merlin's eyes widened comically and he gave Arthur his 'are you serious' look, to which Arthur rolled his eyes and said drolly, "Yes, Merlin, you have my permission," before muttering only slightly under his breath, "not that you ever cared for it anyway!"

Merlin shot him a minute glare before raising his fist to his mouth and noisily clearing his throat. Arthur appealed to the Gods for the patience to not hit a melodramatic, if injured man with his own magic book.

"Fromum feohgiftum on fæder bearme. Fromum feohgiftum."

Arthur stared at Merlin's slightly trembling hand; his pulse and breath gradually returning to normal as...nothing happened.

"Umm does it usually take this long, _Mer_lin, or are you out of practice?" Arthur said snidely. At Merlin's confused and worried expression, he continued in a softer, less scornful tone, "It's okay, you don't have to try to impress me, you know."

"Wouldn't dream of it!" Merlin growled out of the corner of his mouth, and then closed his eyes. With a frown - that Arthur hoped was in concentration rather than pain - Merlin drew a deep lungful of air and then repeated the strange words; his voice louder, more commanding.

And there, floating and revolving in the space between the two men and a foot above Arthur's head, was a large, glowing, transparent ball of energy; streaks of white eddying over its surface. It was only when his mouth suddenly felt dry that Arthur realised his jaw had dropped; so mesmerised was he by the benevolence and beauty of thing that Merlin had created and - now that Arthur thought about it - encompassed so much of himself in. If Merlin was to lose his corporeal form, to move on to another plane of existence, this was how Arthur imagined he would look: so strong and yet fragile; pure and innocent, yet old and wise. And he wondered how he could ever have felt the merest sliver of a threat the last time he had encountered it. It practically screamed the words 'protection' and 'guide' at him.

"It was you!" he breathed, when he managed to find his voice again. "In that cave, with all those spiders."

It was Merlin's turn to roll his eyes. "Yes, Arthur, I already told you that. Or did you think I was lying again?"

Arthur shrugged, though still unable to take his eyes from the spinning, swirling bubble of Merlin-ness. "Seeing is believing, Merlin. And to be honest, it sounded a bit far-fetched, even for one of your stories."

"Thanks!" Merlin said, with a sarcastic grimace, which then morphed into a wince.

Tearing his gaze away from the light ball, Arthur noticed that Merlin's arm - still outstretched and held palm up (as if there was an invisible tether between it and the manifestation of his magic) - was no longer simply trembling but shaking, like it held a great weight. There were also beads of sweat dotting his friend's forehead, which - like the rest of his skin - had paled at least one shade closer to snow.

"Umm Merlin, maybe you should-"

Before Arthur could complete his sentence, he was interrupted by a loud rattling sound coming from the direction of the desk. Two pairs of eyes turned simultaneously - trepidation making their necks move slowly - towards the sound. The tankard was visibly vibrating; its base creating a staccato drum beat on the wood that was growing louder and faster and causing the flower stems it held to shiver; rapidly undressing them of their faded, purple attire. With a suddenness that stole the breath of both friends in a loud gasp - one with shock and the other with pain - the tankard exploded. The King's well-honed reflexes came into effect as he dived forwards to shield his friend from the worst of the shrapnel that went shooting in all directions; wincing when one particularly sharp shard sliced through the tunic and skin on his left shoulder. Arthur glanced down at the tear and angled his head to get a better look at the damage, which thankfully was fairly minor and would probably stop bleeding shortly. He thanked the Gods (and anyone else who might be listening) that Gwaine had happened to have one of the tavern's cheaper clay drinking vessels that day, and not the usual, more expensive metal ones.

Arthur slowly lifted himself off Merlin, noticing as he did that the magical ball had disappeared. Merlin looked, if anything, a little paler; more drained. The dark-haired man's eyes seemed slightly out of focus, and blinked several times, as if he was fighting to not succumb to dizziness. Arthur gripped the arm nearest him.

"Are you alright?" they chorused; Arthur looking into Merlin's pinched face, while Merlin stared at the blood on Arthur's sleeve.

Arthur looked at the bloody patch, pulling the fabric away with a grimace to scrutinise the wound. He wrinkled his nose in dismissal. "It's just a scra-"

He got no further. The door flew open and banged against the wall hard enough to make it shudder and swing back on itself. Gaius stood in the doorway; his hair in disarray and his eyebrows vying to be the first to make good an escape from the top of his head as he took in the scene before him. The two younger men looked back; their cheeks flaring red and their tongues tied as the old man's goggling eyes eventually came to rest on his ward, and widened to the point Arthur was sure his sockets would lose their tentative hold of his eyeballs any second.

"Merlin!" the physician said, his voice full of wonder and joy and his face about to break into a smile until something at the back of his mind reminded him of the noise that had made him hasten to the room, and the mess he'd first spotted when he got there. Though his eyes remained wide, his brows fell into an accusatory glare. "Were you doing magic?" he barked loudly.

Merlin's blush returned full force and he looked away, stammering, "Umm, I...well, not exa-"

"You stupid boy!" Gaius cut across his feeble attempt at an excuse. "Your magic is as badly abused as the rest of you. You should not even use it to light a candle, never mind whatever tomfoolery did that!" He waved his hand vaguely in the direction of the flower and pottery debris on the desk. "Showing off again, no doubt," he added acidly.

While Merlin continued to avoid his guardian's reproachful glare, Arthur held out his hand in an appeasing gesture. "It's my fault, Gaius, I asked him to." He caught Merlin's eye as his head turned to him; a small smile of gratitude curling his mouth for a second.

Gaius' jaw snapped shut, and neither of the other two men could make out the words he grumbled under his breath as he tutted and shuffled over to sit down on the bed, opposite Arthur (though it certainly sounded like it contained the words 'young', 'foolish' and 'idiots'). Still keeping his brow cocked in a one-sided glare, which the physician now aimed solely at his ward, Gaius proceeded - without any care for the man's disdain for fuss - to check Merlin's pulse, temperature and the state of his injuries.

The room had gone uncommonly quiet while the physician completed his examination. To Merlin's utter embarrassment, Arthur sat forwards in his chair, watching Gaius' every move; grimacing when the bandage on his chest was unwrapped to reveal the ugly red line embellished by even uglier black stitches, and surrounded by slightly swollen, puckered skin. Thankfully, there was - as confirmed by Gaius' commentary - no sign of infection and the physician seemed to think the wound much improved since his last check. Which was apparently further evidence that Merlin's magic was busy applying itself to the task of healing him, and therefore should not be siphoned away for the sake of 'performing party tricks'.

Arthur was privately grateful he had not been conscious to see the cut's original state, if this was what it looked like at the well-on-the-way-to-healing stage. And then he remembered that he had sported the exact same injury, only worse, and he decided to relegate further thoughts on the subject to the part of his mind where he put things he hoped never to be vexed by again. But they were nothing compared to the heart-clenching guilt he felt at seeing Merlin's uncovered wrists (after Gaius had rewrapped his chest and moved onto them). The flesh there was still raw, shiny and littered with blisters and skinless patches. Arthur swallowed hard, but forced himself not to turn away. He needed to embed the image in his memory; another reminder of a bad decision he had made and wished never to repeat.

"Are you in any pain, Merlin?" his guardian asked, after recovering his wrists and as a signal that the examination was over.

Merlin, still a little piqued at having been forced to endure it (and with an audience to boot), mumbled gruffly, "I'm fine."

"Merlin!" Arthur growled and glared at him warningly.

Huffing in resignation, Merlin reluctantly said, "Fine! My chest's a bit sore. Happy?"

"Ecstatic," Arthur replied, completely poe-faced.

"I'll get you something to relieve the pain, and some ointment for your wrists," Gaius said. "Anything else?" Merlin shook his head.

Having finished annoying his ward, Gaius' eyes trained on his other patient, and he immediately spotted the bloodstain on Arthur's tunic.

"What happened, sire?" he asked; his voice more suspicious than concerned, since the blood was not spreading further and the King did not seem bothered by it.

Arthur spared his shoulder a quick glance before looking away again. "Oh that; it's nothing. Just a small accident."

Gaius tutted and rolled his eyes; grumbling about young people who expected him to keep their blood inside them, when they did everything to help it escape. "Well stop by on your way out, sire and I'll clean it for you. It doesn't appear to need stitching."

"Thank you, Gaius," Arthur said, reaching out and grasping the old man's shoulder in as tight a squeeze as he dared, given the age of the bones underneath; all his relief, gratitude and remorse flowing out through his fingers. "For everything."

Gaius held his gaze for a good few seconds, seeing again the thoughtful, sensitive boy he'd helped nurture, and the wise, humble King Merlin told him he'd glimpsed now and then. Gaius nodded back and smiled, echoing Arthur's sentiments in his own tired eyes.

When he spoke, his voice wobbled with barely contained pride. "You're welcome, sire." Then clearing his throat pointedly, he stood and glared down at his ward. "Now you -" he jabbed a finger sternly towards the invalid, and Merlin shrunk back into his pillow, eying the digit as if he expected it to shoot something unpleasant into his face, "- need to rest. I'll bring you up some broth and then you'll go straight back to sleep, young man."

Arthur smirked at Merlin's cowed face, at which the warlock glared. "Do as you're told, _Mer_lin," Arthur tried and failed to look serious. "I expect you back at work in a week."

"Two weeks," Merlin snapped back, folding his arms and sticking his chin out rebelliously.

"Eight days," Arthur countered, mirroring Merlin's pose, though having the advantage of being able to sit further up in his chair to add an air of superiority to his argument.

"Ten days," Merlin replied, his mouth turning upwards and staying there.

"Nine," Arthur said, his lips doing the same.

"If you two boys don't mind, I'll be the one to decide when Merlin is ready to return to work, not your silly haggling. And you," Gaius turned his glower towards the King, who leaned away from it, as if he faced an experienced and very angry swordsman, "need to rest as well, Arthur."

Merlin sniggered, but managed to coax his features into the picture of innocence when Arthur raised an accusatory eyebrow at him.

The King rose up from his chair, holding onto the back of it so as to prevent the wave of vertigo that washed over him from soliciting more disapproval from the grumpy physician. "Right, well, lots of important Kingly things to do, and with my manservant out of commission..."

"I thought George was 'the most efficient servant' you've ever seen?" Merlin said with a look of feigned confusion, though he had to fight to keep the smug grin from his face at the way his friend's nose wrinkled in disgust.

"Merlin," Arthur grated warningly.

"Shut up?" Merlin offered.

"And..."

"Umm...do as I'm told?"

"If that's at all possible," Arthur muttered, with little hope for the result.

"I can give it a go," Merlin replied, with a twinkle in his eye as he nestled down further into his blankets.

Arthur was on his way to following Gaius out of the room when he heard his name called by its remaining occupant, so he paused and turned around.

"Thank you."

Arthur frowned, uncertain why he should be receiving thanks after all he had done to not deserve any.

"For what, my friend?" His voice was husky and retained not an ounce of his earlier ire or jocularity.

"For saving me," Merlin replied; voice thick and eyes glassy with tears his ducts strained to hold onto.

"It's what we're here for, Idiot," Arthur said. And with a brief nod and smile, he turned back to the door and used it.

"Prat," came the last word he heard, followed by a loud sniff, as he pulled the door to and descended the steps.


	26. Epilogue

**A/N: Well here we are...the end. Gosh, I never thought I'd actually be doing this (and there've been a few times when I very nearly made sure I wouldn't). But it's been one hell of a journey, and I have learned so much and made some wonderful friends (without whom this would not have been possible). You all know who you are *points finger*. And all I can do - feeble recompense though it is - is to say thank you one more time, from the bottom of my heart, for all the fathomless support and kindness I have received over the months I have been writing this fic. And to anyone who is sitting there, wondering if they should have a go at posting their work on here (as I once did, when there are so many fantastic writers I could never hope to compare with), yes...do! As a wise person once said, our biggest regrets are not for the things we have done but for the things we haven't...**

**I have added a glossary at the end of this to translate all the spells and other things not written in modern English (because I am conscious that I didn't do so at the end of the relevant chapters, as is de rigueur). Most of these are from the Merlin Wiki spells site, but there are a couple I made up, using an old English translator, so I apologise for any errors in grammar.**

**Hope this isn't too pants an ending, after yet another long wait (for which I have only poor excuses). So long and thanks for all the fish...  
**

**Disclaimer: We all own Merlin, in our hearts, but not in reality**

**:O)**

* * *

**Epilogue**

For the first time in a week, the bright light of a cloudless sky shone down on the white castle towers and hotchpotch roof-tops of the city of Camelot. The break in the seemingly endless curtain of rain had drawn people out in their droves to collect wood from the forest, sweep the mud and still-lingering dead leaves from their porches, and take animals out to the pasture, after having been cooped up in barns for too many days. The cries of stall holders, laughter of children and bartering of their parents (as they bought winter vegetables and thicker clothing in the market) drifted up through the slightly ajar window; mixing with the sun's heatless rays to bathe the man sitting on the floor below it in the affirmation of life. It made the breastplate he held glint and sparkle as he tilted it to all angles; ensuring the oil on his cloth had reached every part.

Merlin paused in his rubbing, closed his eyes and tipped his head to one side; enjoying the feel of the light and the sounds as they caressed his skin and tickled the hairs of his inner ears. After a moment though, his flesh registered the chilly bite to the air and he gave a full body shiver; hunching down further into his jacket. Opening his eyes, Merlin glanced over in the direction of the fire, and seeing it was beginning to die down a little, he looked pointedly at the pile of logs he had brought up the night before - now much depleted - and with a flood of gold to his irises, willed a couple of large pieces to float up in the air and land with a shower of sparks in the grate. A small smile of satisfaction at the soon-to-be warmer room pulled his mouth up, and holding it there, he turned and flicked his gaze up to the window behind him. With another flash of gold, the window shut; the latch falling into place with a gentle click. Turning back to the armour in his lap, the servant resumed his polishing.

He knew that if he used magic to finish the task, he would have more time to spend reading one of the books Arthur had secreted for him in the large chest in his wardrobe, from the library's forbidden collection. But there was something very therapeutic about doing it by hand, and with his lightened load of chores, he had long enough to do the job properly for a change. It was also pleasantly warm in the King's chambers - having an endless supply of fuel for the fire - and since Arthur had insisted that Merlin complete the chore there rather than the freezing cold armoury (where he would normally have done it), the warlock was not going to turn his nose up at the chance of a prolonged spell in the cosy room before he had to go somewhere not so well heated.

And Merlin was no fool. He had not failed to notice that Arthur was reluctant to allow him to work in the armoury since he had returned to full duty, and he knew it wasn't entirely down to the lack of a fireplace or light in the place. If Merlin had no choice but to go down there - to collect or drop off the King's armour and weapons - Arthur made sure that he was accompanied. Too many pointy, hurty things in a room tended to have that effect on the King, where Merlin was concerned. The warlock might have been resentful of his friend's apparent lack of faith in his assurances that he would never go so far again; that he would come to the King first if anything upset him enough to make him question his ability to make sound decisions. That is if he wasn't still so overwhelmed by Arthur's heartfelt pleas to respect his Kingly whims when it came to Merlin's health and safety.

"_Don't want you tangling those big, clumsy feet of yours on a weapons rack, and bringing the whole damn lot on top of you. You might scare away the entire staff, once they know I've let 'mishap Merlin' back to work!" Arthur had said, with only a smattering of mockery overlaying the quiver of fear in his tone._

And for once, Merlin had obeyed. For he could not look back over the events of those dark weeks without a fair amount of guilt for what he had put Arthur - and indeed all his friends - through. The marked change in the attitude of every single person he associated with ensured he would not easily be allowed to forget, either. But even if Gaius woke him for the day with a gentle shake and a whispered reminder of the lateness of the hour (giving him sufficient minutes to dress, eat and get Arthur's breakfast to him by the skin of his teeth), instead of shouting at him from the other room (by which time it was too late to do anything but rush out half dressed and deliver an already cold meal to his master)... Or if Sir Leon offered to help carry their King's weapons to the training field (enough times to incite a hint of indignation to Merlin's refusal), rather than letting him struggle alone... Or Elyan insisted on cooking the evening meal and filling Merlin's bowl first, or Percival saw to the horses without even being asked, when they were out on a patrol or hunt... And even when Gwen sought him out - in front of Arthur, and with a gentle smile and nod of approval from him - to take Merlin for a walk to gather herbs, or (Avalon preserve him for the shock!) have the afternoon off... Still, he had his bad days.

Days when the sides of his mouth seemed attached to lead weights, and however brightly the sun shone, it could not defrost the block of ice that lingered in his chest. Or when he found it virtually impossible to speak; and if he did, nothing more than one-word replies would fall from his lips, like rotten teeth. And he could not pass by a knife (left carelessly on a table by someone too distracted to remember the vow they had made to themselves to _never_ do such a foolish thing again) without lingering to thumb its tip; testing its keenness. He couldn't bring himself to admit that he felt the healed cuts cry out to the blade he touched; like chicks calling for succour from a mother bird that had abandoned her nest.

But then he would draw a deep breath, close his eyes and remind himself - as he exhaled long and hard and firmly pushed the knife away from him with a flattened palm - that he didn't need to do that anymore. Then he would rub at the puckered scars on his left wrist and chest, and scare himself with the image of Arthur, Gaius or Gwen – their skin glistening with the kisses of a knife as his had been; knowing that he no more wished to see them in that state than they had him. The voice in his head might still tell him how useless he was when something went wrong, but it had been reduced from a shrill shriek to a whining whisper. He could live with that. And for once, having a conversation with the great dragon had helped.

"_Why have you called me?" Merlin asked. He stood in the moonlit clearing before the bronze beast; his shoulders hunched against the cold breeze as his eyes followed the antics of the white blur that was the dragon's charge. Aithusa was dashing around her two elders; snapping at bats and moths as they hurried to gather the last of the insect feasts before their long winter sleep. Merlin frowned and smiled by turn; listening to the babblings the little dragon thrust in his head as she brought him up to date on what appeared to be everything she had seen and done since they'd last met._

"_To see if you would come," Kilgharrah replied, with his usual rumbling chuckle and a sly twinkle in his luminescent eyes._

_Merlin almost thought he heard the unspoken 'this time' in his head, though it was a little hard to concentrate with all the other 'noise'. Apparently, telling Aithusa to be quiet as adults were talking was only good for about a minute, before she took up the one-sided conversation where she had left off; pausing only long enough to hear Merlin's 'oohs', 'ahs' and 'well dones' before launching into recounting another adventure. But before Merlin could follow up his glower with a retort about not being a messenger pigeon, if Kilgharrah was not a horse, the dragon continued._

"_And to see if the shadows you carry still obscure your view."_

"_My view?"_

"_Of your destiny, young warlock. You may have lost sight of it for a time, but it has always been there; waiting for you."_

_Merlin harrumphed and pursed his lips. "Why must my whole life be mapped out? Is it so much to ask that I be given a choice in what I do?"_

_The dragon sat back on his haunches, growling at his ward to be still or return to the mountains as she attempted to do a back-flip and crashed into a Mountain Ash sapling. The little dragon ignored him and shaking dried leaves and dead twigs from her shoulders__ , she launched herself up to a thick branch of an old oak, and hunkered down to watch her Lord and guardian from above._

_Looking steadily into Merlin's eye, Kilgharrah said, "No-one said you could not choose your path to your destiny, young warlock. It is less of a map and more of a guide."_

_Merlin sighed heavily and looked away from the fiery eyes that bore into him. "More riddles!" he muttered to himself._

"_If I was to tell you what you must do and in the manner that you should do it, then you would not make your choices freely. As you have been doing since the first time I called to you, Merlin. You _chose _to come to me that night, when you could have easily come another or not at all; just as you chose not to tell Morgana of your magic, when she discovered hers. It was your decision to help the Druid boy to escape and to attempt to heal Uther, rather than leave him to die from a fatal wound. But whatever I advised and whatever you did, matters not...ultimately you will reach the same destination. The prophets do not lie."_

"_So what you are saying is that I cannot escape my fate?" Merlin drawled and he didn't bother to hide the exasperation from his face or voice. "How is _that_ supposed to make me feel better?!"_

"_That has never been my purpose," the dragon replied, his expression impassive, though not entirely without pity._

"_Then what is?" Merlin snapped bitterly._

"_To remind you of yours. This journey you are on is no different from other journeys through life. We are all born fated to die; it is what we choose to fill the time between birth and death with that makes the journey interesting. Taking a shortcut to the finish line – as you would have done – only serves to deprive the journey of meaning."_

Merlin sighed, as he had done that night, when the dragon's meaning had finally begun to make sense. He might never be rid of the shadows – the darkness – that dwelled within him, but if Arthur could live with his, then so could he. He knew he had flaws and might not be held together very well in places, but he could still be the wall that stood around his King; guarding his life with every breath of his own. He knew where he had to go; he only had to find his own path to get there. The journey towards his destiny might not be over, but at least he was not travelling it alone; his companions on it had expressed their willingness to share his burdens too many times to be further denied.

And Arthur _knew_! He knew and had accepted his secrets. More than that, they were still friends, and that - to Merlin - meant more than the satisfaction of achieving his destiny after so many years of waiting.

Arthur had explained to him - with a face and voice filled with such concern and regret that it could not fail to bring Merlin to grasp his friend's shoulder in reassurance and forgiveness - that as much as he wished it, the thinking of Camelot's council and citizens could not be altered overnight. If he was to avoid the anarchy and rebellion that was sure to follow the sudden rescinding of one of their most fundamental laws (that had - on the surface - helped bring peace), then he could not make changes so radically. But they would be amended - in subtle, gentle stages - so as to not startle the herd into bolting. And Merlin, as his secret advisor, would help him. For they agreed that until such time as attitudes towards magic-wielding and peasant-born officials were sufficiently transformed, it was best for Merlin to continue to play the part of the hapless, defenceless servant.

Merlin was content with that. If Albion was a field, then Arthur was the farmer, and by accepting Merlin's magic, he had already ploughed the earth. All that remained was for seeds to be scattered and magic would once again take root and flourish in the land. Then the people would not need convincing that the harvest was good; that their fears of blight, hunger and death were groundless. And then there would be a feast such as no-one had ever seen before. Until then, Merlin would keep washing Arthur's socks.

The sudden sound of three sharp knocks broke Merlin from his musing with a light gasp and - cursing himself for his ability to let his imagination run away with him - he looked up in time to see Gwaine's head poke round the door he had just opened. The knight's long hair came to a swishing stop, a second after his head did, on spotting Merlin's hunched form by the window, and his whiskery face split into a grin.

"Ah, so the Princess _can_ be right sometimes. You _are_ in his chambers...polishing," he said, in a voice that suggested he'd lost a wager.

Merlin scowled at the implication that he might have been trying to hide where he could not be found again. "I thought you were in the same meeting as Arthur," he said, his hands resuming their swirling route along the breastplate, as his gaze flickered between his task and the knight.

Gwaine frowned at him, his eyes following Merlin's hands as he came the rest of the way into the room and closed the door behind him. "I was."

"So, it finished early?" Merlin looked up at the knight.

"No, I got bored."

"And Arthur just let you leave?" Merlin couldn't help the touch of disbelief and more than a modicum of envy in his voice, since he had never been granted an early dismissal from such meetings; no matter how many times he yawned, shuffled his feet or made irritating noises.

"Not entirely. My finger-drumming during his oh-so-interesting end of meeting summary might have clinched it, so he sent me on a quest."

Merlin frowned; his polishing cloth paused. "What sort of quest?"

"Um, Merlin, why are you doing that?"

Merlin's brow wrinkled with confusion; his eyes following Gwaine's to his hands. "Because it needs to be done?" His voice rose in pitch at the end of his reply, knowing the knight wasn't after the obvious answer, but unsure what else to offer.

Gwaine's eyes narrowed, as if he thought Merlin was being deliberately obtuse. "No, I mean why aren't you just using your -" he wiggled the fingers of his right hand suggestively towards the piece of armour.

Comprehension cleared Merlin's features and he gave a shy smile; shrugging as his gaze moved back to his lap and the cloth that was back to its rotating parade across metal he would have deemed shiny enough on any other day.

After a moment, Gwaine pulled out a chair from the long table behind him and sat in it; hunching over his knees. "Wouldn't it be quicker?" he asked, clasping his hands together.

"It would."

"But you don't want it to be."

"Nope."

"Why?"

"Well, perhaps I want to prove to myself - as much as to Arthur - that my magic isn't all there is to me; that I can be...'normal'."

"Merlin."

"Mm-hmm?"

"You're weird."

Merlin grinned and let out a huffing chuckle. "You've just figured that out have you?"

Gwaine leaned back in the chair; lacing his fingers behind his head and stretching his feet out in front of him. "Oh no, I had you figured out a long time ago. Pretty much the day you and the Princess walked into that tavern and picked a fight with a thug twice the size of either of you."

Merlin raised his head a little and a single eyebrow a lot; appraising the knight with surprise.

"What I don't understand," Gwaine continued, his grin broadening as he ignored Merlin's scrutiny, "is why a man of your talents limits his power to tossing plates and saving the lives of measly Kings, when there's so much more fun to be had." The gruff man emphasised his point by waggling his eyebrows.

Merlin's surprised expression turned to shock; his eyes widening and mouth dropping open as he digested the knight's words. "Wait a minute," he said, his voice tickling a suddenly-dry throat and making him cough, "You mean you've known...all this time?"

Gwaine pursed his lips; hiding the smirk that was trying to force its way onto them. "We're not all as dumb as princesses, Merlin. And I didn't exactly _know_ as such. Suspected: yes. And now you've just confirmed that it _was_ you throwing crockery and benches that day, so thanks for that."

Merlin glowered at the knight before returning to his task. "So why didn't you say anything?" he said quietly, not taking his eyes off the breastplate.

"We're not all as scared as princesses, either. And besides, I had no reason to, until you gave me one." Merlin looked up; frowning. "And you didn't until you decided to top yourself."

The warlock grimaced and looked away, his cheeks reddening.

"I know it's your life an' all, but I can't say I was too happy about that, mate."

Merlin sighed. He'd had similar versions of this conversation too many times to count over the last couple of months, although Gwaine's was much less formal or honey-coated than the others had been. "Yeah, I know, it was selfish of me," he said monotonously, like he was reciting one of Arthur's speeches. "I should have come and talked to you or gone down the tavern or something along those lines, right?" He raised a sardonic eyebrow at the knight, who returned his gaze with nothing but sincerity in his eyes.

"Hell no, not if you didn't want to. I'm hardly one to preach about keeping secrets, am I?" The knight gave a small but - for once - unplayful smile, which Merlin returned slowly.

"You do take yourself a little too seriously though," Gwaine continued, his voice starting to make its way to the droll side that Merlin was more familiar with. "Even Kings' legendary protectors need to live a little, otherwise what are you fighting for exactly?"

Merlin guffawed. "Hah! When do I have five minutes to spare to enjoy myself?"

"I believe we've already discussed that, mate. And I'm betting that even if you cut a few corners here and there you'd spend whatever time you made with your head in some book; learning how to make yourself into a bigger, better spell-casting machine for her highness."

Merlin dropped his gaze, not wishing to let his friend see how close he was to the truth, but knowing even as he did that he'd failed.

"Yeah, thought so."

"It's my destiny, and I have to be ready," Merlin mumbled, shrugging one-sidedly.

"As do we all. But what good will you be to her highness if you can't magic straight?"

Merlin cocked his head to one side, contemplating his words with his lips pursed.

"Anyway, think about it. But not too hard. Thinking shrivels your nuts to the size of raisins. Ask Leon."

Merlin chuckled, his grin widening and heart feeling a little lighter.

"So you don't want to hear my new idea then for how we can have ourselves some entertainment with you and your little gift?" Gwaine asked teasingly.

Merlin rolled his eyes. "Gwaine, if I said 'no' to your last twenty-two ideas for having 'fun', you can take it as read that your latest one will do nothing to keep my magic secret - like Arthur wants - either."

Gwaine made a rude noise. "The Princess has got a marrow stuck up his arse!"

"That would explain why his underwear smells of rotten vegetables," Merlin sniggered.

"Exactly! So all we have to do is start off the evening with a few drinks...loosen him up a little, and -"

"Gwaine-"

"- a few for you too wouldn't hurt, then -"

"Gwaine, NO! Not in a month of Sundays."

Gwaine scowled and muttered loudly about boring magicians and their equally unimaginative royal leash holders.

"Anyway," Merlin firmly broke across the knight's grumbling, "aren't you supposed to be on a quest of some sort?"

Gwaine's face was once more slashed by a wide smile. "That I am: a Merlin-gathering quest. Our Lord and master wants to go on a hunt as soon as the meeting's finished. Which would be ooooh...about now."

Merlin's curious, half-smiling expression fell, along with a groan from his lips. "Now?" He glanced up at the window behind him; judging the hour. "Why can't he give me more notice?" he said, not caring how whiny he sounded. He turned his glare on his scruffy friend and abruptly stood up; allowing the armour piece and cloth to fall to the floor with a clatter. "And why didn't you say so earlier? Do you have any idea how much I have to prepare when Arthur decides that killing animals is the only thing that will relieve his boredom?"

Merlin darted past the knight; heading towards the wardrobe as he mumbled profanities under his breath. Gwaine stood as well, then stooped to pick up the armour and cloth; dumping them in a messy pile on the table behind him, before trailing after Merlin.

"Hey, hey," he said, his arms held out in a calming manner, "don't get your petticoat in a twist, wizard-boy, we've got it all covered." Merlin paused while holding up one of Arthur's spare and - judging by the expression on his face, as he gave it an experimental sniff - not entirely clean undershirts, and frowned at the knight. "I spoke to George on my way here and he's off getting everything we'll need."

Merlin dropped the shirt and Gwaine's eyes automatically traced its descent back to the floor, from where he suspected it had come, as the warlock planted his hands on his hips.

"Food?"

"Enough for a week, knowing Brownie."

"Weapons?"

"Primed, and probably polished at least twice."

"Horses?"

"Being pampered, saddled and loaded as we speak. All we need now is a secret, spell-casting servant who squanders his skills on a spoil-sport King." He made a show of scanning every corner of the room; the side of his hand pressed to his forehead and standing on the tips of his toes to see further afield, while Merlin pouted at him. Gwaine's gaze came to rest on Merlin and his face morphed into the epitome of 'pleasantly surprised'. "Ah, here's one! Off we go then." And with that, he about-turned and strode for the door.

Merlin, giving one last eye-roll and long-suffering sigh, followed.

* * *

The secret noble and warlock made a quick detour to the Physician's chambers, so that the latter could gather together his own few supplies; including the much warmer winter coat that had been a surprise gift from Arthur only the week before (though he suspected Gwen's hand in choosing it, given the King's lack of skills when it came to assembling his own attire). Merlin had suggested meeting the knight half an hour later in the courtyard, but Gwaine had insisted on coming to help him. This mostly consisted of the rogue lying on his friend's bed and continuing in his efforts to persuade Merlin to use his magic on the trip to trick his fellow knights (particularly Percival, who only two days previously had played an embarrassing joke on the long-haired knight, involving a pig, a lady's nightdress and rather a lot of mead). Merlin, of course, adamantly refused to give in to the knight's cajolery, but rather than be perturbed, Gwaine cheerfully announced that he would see his warlock friend get up to no good with his magic by the end of the month, or he would spend the following one sober and celibate!

By the time the two men arrived at the stables, the other knights were assembled and attaching last minute necessities to their horses' saddles. Merlin was just about to walk through the large wooden doors to prepare and bring out his and Arthur's horses when George walked out; leading the two beasts with gentle words of encouragement and clicks of his tongue. Unlike Merlin on such occasions, George had not a stalk of straw sticking to his hair, no sweat on his brow, and no manure coating his boots. As far as appearances foretold, he could have just left the servants' quarters to start work for the day, though Merlin guessed George had probably already done thrice the work that he could achieve in the same time.

On spotting Merlin, the other neckerchief-wearing man gave a tight smile and a small, almost imperceptible bow. The warlock blushed and returned the smile with an awkward one of his own. George had been acting so differently towards Merlin since his return to duty, and at times, the warlock found it difficult to know how to respond to him. Gone were the disparaging looks at his lack of servile abilities, grace and decorum, and in their place were respectful nods and smiles, and even the odd 'Good Morning, Merlin'.

On only the second day back at work (when Merlin had forgotten Arthur's sword in his usual mess of thoughts to get everything done for the King on time), all it took was a throwaway comment from Gwaine (that Merlin should take a moment to rest before running up all the stairs) for George to scoot away and return to the training field with the absent weapon in half the time the warlock would have taken. And Merlin was certain it was the brass-obsessed servant who'd been responsible for the basket of sumptuous fruits and pastries he'd found in his room (after returning from the walk outside Gwen had dragged him on, once Gaius declared him strong enough to do so). Though Merlin had not recognised the hand that had written the two simple words "Thank you" on the basket's accompanying note, the fact that every piece of leather and metal in his room had been polished to within an inch of its life pretty much gave the grateful party's identity away.

Merlin was not entirely sure for what reason the other servant had gone to such lengths, but he guessed it must have something to do with what George had witnessed that night in the Physician's chambers. Perhaps his respect of the King went a lot further than the prestige of fulfilling the role of his manservant, and he was thankful for Merlin's part in saving his employer's life? Or maybe his bootlicking attitude was merely an act, and contrary to appearances, George actually despised the job (and was therefore relieved when it was given back to his predecessor)?

Whatever his motives, Merlin was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. The man had so far said nothing to anyone about his magic, and for that, Merlin was very much obliged. Granted, it could have a lot to do with a certain long-haired, fiercely protective knight, whom George had recently done his utmost to avoid. But who was Merlin to complain, if it meant he stayed alive long enough for Arthur to lift the ban on magic, and then it wouldn't matter who knew about it.

"Um, thanks," Merlin said, as George handed him the horses' reins. The servant gave him another small bow, to which Merlin shuffled his feet uncomfortably.

George looked up again and caught Gwaine's eye, as he watched the interchange over Merlin's shoulder. The knight narrowed his eyes and raised one side of his upper lip; baring one of his canines in a miniature growl. A look of fear passed over the servant's face and emitting a small whimper, he turned a little too quickly to walk away...and bumped straight into the King.

The next few moments were filled with George's profuse apologies, Arthur's almost embarrassed waiving of the man's blame, and Gwaine's smirks and sniggers; barely contained behind the cover of his hand. Finally, wanting rid of the bootlicking man, the King dismissed him and turned to frown at Gwaine.

"Just what did you _do_ to the man? He's even more insufferable than he was before!"

"Nothing that you wouldn't have done, if you knew what was good for you," Gwaine replied unabashedly.

"And I suppose if I hadn't, you would have used the same method to persuade me as you did George."

"Immediately and without hesitation," came the straight-faced reply, and Merlin had trouble hiding the wide grin behind his hand.

"Great!" Arthur replied, glaring at the knight and turning to spread his displeasure on the warlock as well. "It's so comforting to know I have only the most faithful of knights in my service."

"Loyalty isn't the preserve of royalty. Wouldn't you agree, Princess?" Gwaine was staring at Merlin, who had a sudden desire to give his mare's halter an unnecessary adjustment.

"I would," Arthur said curtly, then grabbed his horse's reins from Merlin and lead the horse to one side, before he could be blessed by the full power of Gwaine's very smug smirk.

After mounting the brown stallion, Arthur looked around to check that the others were doing the same, and received brief nods from Percival, Elyan and Leon; who had been discreetly watching their fellow knight and King's exchange with varying expressions of bemusement and mirth.

"Right, well, let's get going shall we, before Gwaine gets withdrawal symptoms and disappears down the tavern with my Lord _Mer_lin again."

The warlock answered the waggle-browed beam the rogue threw over his shoulder with a mock glare, as they one-by-one urged their mounts to follow the king's.

* * *

Two hours later, the party was slowly fanning out from the clearing in the Darkling woods, where they had tied their horses to a fallen tree; making quiet wagers with each other over who would bring back the largest kill.

Merlin took up his customary position behind Arthur; carrying his crossbow, spare sword and waterskin. Contrary to his usual mood on being subjected to the wonders of alleviating small animals of their pitiful existences, the warlock was enjoying the chance for some peace and quiet to think, without the frequent interruptions from his friends; asking if he was getting too tired, cold or hungry. But unlike before, where it had driven him to run away from anyone who so much as looked at him for more than five seconds, now he viewed their attentions with a sort of fond annoyance.

Having seen the joy and relief on the faces of each of his comrades as they had come to visit him during his return to health, he was finally beginning to accept that the role he played in their lives was a lot more significant than his darkness-dwelling mind had allowed him to believe. And it was surprisingly pleasant to be on the receiving end of their praise for a change, for his part in saving Arthur's life; even though his congratulators were mostly unaware of the true extent of his involvement, other than volunteering as a human shield to the King. One day, everyone would know of the sacrifices Merlin had made, and he would publicly receive the accolade he deserved. Or so Arthur had promised, as he clasped Merlin's hand and clung to his eyes, like a drowning man to a piece of flotsam. But for now, the fewer who knew of his secret, the safer it would be. There was still the danger of Morgana finding out who Merlin was. One good thing that had come out of the assassination attempt was that Arthur's natural caution had been reinstated to the possibility of there being spies - right under his very nose - in his own home.

Though he had no evidence to prove his suspicions, Merlin was sure that Agravaine had somehow been involved in the attack on Arthur's life. The noble had visited Merlin - soon after waking from his coma - to offer congratulations for his survival and thanks for saving his nephew's life. There had been a look of disbelief and even a little anger in the Lord's guarded eyes, as he listened to the tale he had asked Merlin to recount of what had occurred when the assassin (supposedly) burst into the Physician's chambers and tried to finish the job he'd started at the feast. Thankfully, Gaius had managed to distract Agravaine from continuing with his intense and awkward questions by asking about the rather prominent bruise he was sporting on his left eye. The dark-haired noble had left soon after, with a forced smile and denial of requirement for Gaius' aid, and Merlin could tell by the raised eyebrow his mentor aimed at him that he also did not believe that Agravaine had tripped over some utensils left in his chambers by the 'useless servant who cleaned them' (and whom the noble was going to speak to the House Master about). Quite apart from the very low regard Merlin had for the veracity of any words that came out of Agravaine's mouth, he had worked with the servant in question - Edwin - for many years, and knew him to be almost as efficient and conscientious as George.

Merlin wished with all his heart that he could share this one last secret - his misgivings about Agravaine - with Arthur, and his fear that it was only a matter of time before the sneaky, detestable man tried again. But as Gaius reminded him, Arthur trusted his Uncle, and they still had no proof of the man's duplicitous nature or true allegiance. Not wishing to rock the King's faith in those close to him further than it already had been of late, Merlin had to content himself with simply keeping an eye on Agravaine. One day, the Lord would make his first mistake, and be caught in the act.

"_Mer_lin!" Arthur's angry whisper broke through his reverie, and with a hum and flinch, the warlock blinked and turned to the King; raising his eyebrows in question.

"Sire?"

Arthur rolled his eyes. "Back with me are you?"

Merlin gave him one of his sheepish grins and then looked blankly at the hand his friend was thrusting, fingers wide and palm up, in his direction.

Arthur tutted and sighed when Merlin made no further move to interact with the hand - other than look at it - and said tersely, "Crossbow!"

Merlin took a second longer to process the demand (toying briefly with the idea of saying that no, actually, his bow was feeling quite affable at that moment in time, then rejecting it as being certain to win him extra chores for his cheek later on), before handing the weapon over to the now-gesticulating hand.

"Thank you."

Merlin smiled. Thanks to frequent use over the past month or so, the two words no longer sounded so foreign coming from the King's mouth. A feeling of contentment washed over him as he once again received the only reward he had ever desired for the things he did for Arthur. Though Gwaine might disagree, and mock him for stubbornly eschewing fame and fortune (because apparently, only coin and reputation would allow him to collect drinks at the tavern and ladies in his bed), Merlin felt like the richest man in the kingdom to be acknowledged by something better than insults from his best friend.

Merlin watched as Arthur drew back the string and raised the crossbow level with his eye; his right finger resting on the trigger as he stared unblinkingly into the undergrowth where - so Merlin presumed - he had caught sight of prey large enough to win over all the other knights' bets. For once - and maybe in gratitude for the King's determination to show appreciation for Merlin's service - the warlock did his utmost to cause no distractions and rid his friend of his sport. Thus even he noticed that the sounds of footfalls on cool wet leaves did not equate with that of a furry forest dweller, but in fact sounded more like the heavy steps of a human; one not as well trained in stealth as the knights of Camelot. The frown that creased the King's forehead therefore came as no surprise and was echoed by Merlin's own, when he too peered into the thick branches of the yew before them.

Without a word, Arthur thrust the crossbow towards Merlin, and the raven-haired man took it; carefully un-nocking the quarrel as the King quietly withdrew his sword from its scabbard and took a measured step forwards. The snap of a twig broke the silence, and Merlin bit his tongue hard to prevent a gasp escaping his mouth, as he and Arthur edged their way towards their quarry; the warlock's heart beginning to beat faster in his chest.

A roaring cry was all the warning Merlin had to duck his head; leaving only an inch to spare as a sword came sailing over it from behind him. He whirled around to come face to face with a heavy-set, bearded and balding man of middle years, who grimaced at him as he swung his slightly rusting sword around for a second turn at relieving Merlin of his head. Merlin dropped the crossbow and leaned away from the man; motivated to create a distance between them by the ruffian's sweaty, rotten-meat aroma, as much as the weapon he brandished with more skill than the warlock could ever hope to gain. Before the man's sword could get within a foot of Merlin's head again however, it came to a stop with a ringing clang as it hit the three feet of steel that had been placed in its path by a very angry King.

The scruffy, leather-clad man stepped back; his eyes wide as he took in the professional swordsman's stance and steel-eyed glare of the not so easily dispatched prey that had taken the place of the much weaker-looking one he'd chosen to attack first. But an expression that was half-way between a snarl and a sneer almost immediately fell over his features, when with another roar, he rushed forwards; aiming to see if his sword would pass through this still-only-leather-armoured target just as easily as the completely unprotected one. Arthur blocked the man's charge, allowing the energy of his attack to be dispersed in his blade, as the other's slid up his own with a metallic cry, until their hilts barred further momentum.

With an angry grunt and wrinkled nose, when the man's lack of personal hygiene made itself known, Arthur pressed his shoulder down and shoved him away. "Stay back, Merlin!" he cried; readying himself for the next attack.

Not taking his eyes from his opponent, the man raised his lips in a sneer; revealing brown and chipped teeth and the source of part of his smell. "Yeah, _Mer_lin," he said, his voice deep and gravelly, "stay back and I'll see to you in a sec, but you can watch if you like, while I deal with your mate 'ere.

Merlin's snort and guffaw of "I don't think so!" was lost beneath the sounds of feet scuffling on the muddy ground and clank after clank as the bandit launched into an attack that almost took Arthur by surprise at its speed and ferocity. Merlin drew Arthur's spare sword from the scabbard at his waist as he watched the fight avidly; knowing his intervention wouldn't be necessary, but preferring to prepare for the unexpected nevertheless.

It was just as Arthur was able to take advantage of the man stumbling over a tree root to pierce his belly with his sword that Merlin felt a leather-covered, muscular arm wrap itself around his throat and yank him back into a studded jerkin. He dropped his sword in order to bring both hands up to try to prise the meaty limb away from where it pressed hard enough against his windpipe to keep his voice in his throat; his eyes bulging as he gasped in a breath. The next moment, he felt the press of sharp steel below the arm on his throat and Merlin stilled his struggling as the man holding him yelled out, "Drop your sword!"

Arthur spun round from the semi-crouched position he held, as the bandit he'd felled reached the ground with a thump, and his face filled with first horror and then rage at the second threat of the day to his servant. He narrowed his eyes as he took in the tall and wide build of the man who completely dwarfed the skinny warlock, and who could have been Percival's brother, apart from his long, shaggy, black hair and grizzled beard.

"Let. Him. Go!" Arthur said, his voice hissing as if he held a burning coal in his mouth; his eyes flashing dangerously at Merlin's captor.

Merlin only just managed to drag in a sharp breath as the man's muscles flexed; tightening his hold on the warlock's neck while pressing his sword hard enough to cut open the first few layers of skin. Merlin could almost feel the wave of anger wash over him, along with Arthur's retaliatory growl when the King saw the thin line of blood decorate his friend's pale flesh, like a macabre necklace.

"Ain't gonna happen," the bandit replied, and though he couldn't see it, Merlin could hear the smug grin in his tone, as the man brandished what was - to him - the greater advantage over the two men. "Now, drop your sword, or you'll be taking your friend home in two halves."

Arthur's gaze moved down from the ruffian's superior height to Merlin's inferior one, and he caught Merlin's eye. The King lifted one eyebrow pointedly, and the warlock heard the unspoken 'What are you waiting for?' ringing in his ears. He allowed one side of his mouth to rise; welcoming the bait.

Keeping his eyes centred on his friend, as he felt the man shuffle behind him nervously at the lack of response from his challenger, Merlin gently released the hold on his power, and without uttering a word, felt the magic flood through his veins; turning his irises gold. Instantly, heat began to rise from the weapon held just beneath his Adam's Apple, and he didn't need to see it to know that it was already glowing a deep, burnished orange with the force that surged through it. He steadfastly held in the wince that was trying to flee his facial muscles, as the burning sensation on the sword-cut increased; he wouldn't give his captor the satisfaction of knowing that his spell was affecting him in even the slightest way.

Either the bandit needed more convincing that his sword was now too hot to hold, or he was stupidly trying to prove that having a hand on fire would not put a dent in his bravado, but that did not prevent the entire limb from juddering in a matter of seconds. Merlin could also feel the man's respiration quickening, and he heard a couple of pained whimpers escape gritted teeth. It was not until a thin line of smoke issued from the bandit's palm however that his pain receptors finally kicked his pride in the trouser area, allowing common sense to take over, and with a high-pitched yell, the sword was flung to the moist earth.

Immediately, Arthur leapt forwards to kick the dropped weapon out the way in a shower of mulch. He would have grabbed Merlin's arm to yank him out of reach of the bandit, who was now cursing and nursing his blistered palm, if the warlock had not first stomped on the man's foot (increasing the volume and intensity of the expletives) then elbowed him hard in the ribs. The giant of a man fell to the ground and Arthur leaped on him; rolling him onto his stomach and wrenching his arms behind his back. Merlin grimaced at the sight of the ruined flesh on the bandit's hand, as his wrists were forced together, but he knew the King probably wasn't feeling the slightest inkling of remorse for his pain; so overcome was he with indignation for the threat made to one he cared about. Although Merlin regretted the necessity of harming another to save himself, one thing he had gained from his brush with death a few weeks ago was that Arthur's need of his protection provided enough value to his own life to put aside most of the doubts he had about his purpose in preserving it.

"Merlin, you don't happen to have any rope in your pack do you?" Arthur called, and the strain in his voice drew the rest of the warlock's attention to his friend. The King was still sitting atop the bandit's back, struggling to keep the wildly thrashing man subdued.

"Swefe nu!" Merlin chanted, splaying his hand out towards the ruffian, who immediately went limp as consciousness was stolen from him.

Arthur breathed out a loud sigh of relief and puffed a strand of sweat-soaked fringe off his forehead. "Why didn't you just do that earlier?"

Merlin fingered the line on his neck that was no longer bleeding, thanks to his unintentional cauterisation, and winced when one of his calluses caught on a more fragile area of scabbed skin. "Where would be the fun in that?"

Arthur raised an incredulous eyebrow at him. "You've been hanging around with Gwaine too long."

Merlin snorted as he shrugged off his rucksack and rifled through it for the coil of rope he always carried with him for emergencies. When he found it, he handed it to Arthur wordlessly, who, with Merlin's help, dragged the unconscious man to a nearby tree. Merlin smiled when he noticed how the King avoided wrapping the rough rope around the bandit's burnt hand, as he tied him to the tree's trunk. The ruffian didn't deserve the consideration, but that did not stop his conqueror from giving it.

Standing up from his completed task, Arthur brushed off his palms on his trousers and raised his chin towards Merlin, who was picking up the dropped crossbow. "Neat trick," he said, and then frowned as a thought struck him. "Hey, you've never done that to me, have you?"

Merlin furrowed his brow and pursed his lips; rolling the puckered orifice from left to right as he made a play of mulling the question over. But at Arthur's narrowed eyes the warlock broke out into a toothy smile. "Nah, I reserve that one for smelly bandits and lovesick Princesses." At Arthur's look of confusion, Merlin shook his head dismissively. "No, I'm not stealing Gwaine's nicknames, and don't burst your brain thinking about it - I wouldn't want to have to clean _that_ mess out of your tunic!" Arthur continued to glare at him as he sheathed his sword, but Merlin deliberately kept his eyes on anything except the King.

"Right, well, we'd better go and find the others," Arthur said. "These two could have been stragglers from a larger group." He turned and began to jog back the way they had come. Merlin shouldered his bag, hitched the crossbow higher and with a put-upon sigh, followed in his friend's wake.

* * *

Any hopes Merlin might have had that Arthur's hunch had been wrong were soon shattered, when the sounds of men shouting and metal hitting metal gradually pervaded the cold air of the rapidly waning afternoon. The two men squinted as they picked up their pace; trying to see ahead for visual confirmation of the apparent battle taking place.

Coming to the top of a slight rise in the trees, they were brought up short behind the negligible cover of two ivy-clad birch trees by the sight in the small valley below. Directly beneath them, Percival was fighting two men simultaneously; somehow managing to dodge the blows of one mace-wielding bandit while clashing swords with the other, equally dirty and ugly-looking man. A few yards in front of him, Elyan was ducking away from the blur that was the spinning ball of the flail his opponent had almost managed to impale the dark-skinned knight with; both only just managing to prevent themselves from tripping over the body of the felled bandit at their feet. A short distance away, near the other side of the clearing, Gwaine and Leon were fighting almost back to back; surrounded by five men, armed with an arsenal of ill-kempt weapons.

Arthur clenched his jaw and unsheathed his sword; preparing to run down into the fray and help his brothers. Beside him, Merlin gripped the trunk of the tree he hid behind; his eyes darting from friend to friend, looking for the signs that his particular mode of intervention might be required and could be applied discreetly. Arthur glanced across at him, noting that he'd made no move to arm himself.

"Well come on then, _Mer_lin, sword out - we haven't got all day!" And flinging a brief smirk over his shoulder, he stood and threw himself down the steep slope in front of them; his sword already raised to swing down and meet the oblivious back of Percival's second attacker.

Merlin drew Arthur's spare sword, feeling nervous as he always did with the unnatural-seeming weight of a cold, hard weapon in his hand, as oppose to the familiar, comforting warmth of his magic sizzling in his palm; waiting to be given shape and purpose. Well aware that his inborn clumsiness would likely find every rock and root doing their best to trip him up, he took the slope a little more gingerly than the King had, as he jogged down to the valley bottom. On reaching it though, he hung back for a second, not really sure where to start and to whom he should give his help first; alternately squeezing and relaxing his hand on the hilt of his sword. The decision was taken away from him, however, when one of the bandits hounding Gwaine and Leon spotted him loitering, and broke off to meet the new threat.

Merlin raised his sword just in time to meet the whirling chain of the flail the short, stocky, mousy-haired man spun; the ball wrapping around Merlin's blade for a second before the bandit roughly yanked it free and began spinning it again. Merlin eyed the whirring, spiked sphere warily; swallowing hard as he was reminded first of the one that only months ago had given him a grievous wound in the chest, and then of the one Arthur had fought him with in the marketplace, during their second meeting. He didn't have very long for the memories to assault him though, as a second later the ruffian thrust the weapon forwards; aiming to give Merlin's skull some ventilation holes. The warlock leaped backwards, straight onto the uneven surface of a large log, over which he promptly fell. The bandit came after him, swinging his weapon, but with a flash of gold from Merlin's eyes, the man tripped and fell on his back; landing in the churned up leaves with a loud 'oomph'.

Merlin wasted no time in grabbing the sword he had dropped in his fall, and was just scrambling to his feet - all the while keeping his eyes on the bandit (who was struggling to regain his equilibrium and a more upright position than his hands and knees) - when he heard a cheerful voice call out to him, "Nice of you to join us, Merlin!"

The warlock looked up to see Gwaine trotting towards him; his sword bloodied from the bandit he had just killed and a grin smeared across his already-bruising cheek. "Would you like me to take care of that for you?" he asked, and without waiting for an answer, clunked the dazed man on the back of the head with the pommel of his sword; sending the rest of him the relatively short distance to join his knees on the ground.

"Thanks," Merlin replied with a relieved smile.

The bearded knight clapped him on the shoulder, before turning around to survey whatever fights were still taking place in the clearing. That was when they both spotted the thirty or so unanticipated additions to the bandits' numbers, who were at that second pouring over the sides of the small valley and running towards the hunting party.

The two took a moment to face each other - resignation and a silent message of 'Here we go again!' passing between them - before both yelled out at the tops of their lungs, "ARTHUR!"

The King looked up from the corpse he had just created, and which was at that moment sliding off his blade to the forest floor. The stunned expression that first visited his features was swiftly replaced by determination. "REGROUP!" he shouted, and backed up a couple of yards, so that he was standing at the centre of the clearing.

The others hurried over to him - Elyan limping slightly from a sword cut he'd been unable to block in time - and as a group they huddled in a rough circle; facing out towards the rapidly approaching enemy. Merlin spared a quick glance at Arthur, reassuring himself that his King was unhurt.

Arthur - as if sensing his inspection - turned towards him and gave a brief, grim smile; his eyes conveying the message that he too was relieved that his friend was unharmed, before calling out, "ON ME!" The King sprang forth, without a backwards glance to see if his order was being followed; his sword held aloft to meet the first of the bandits that had just reached them. The others too yelled out their wordless battle cries as they clashed steel on steel with their foes.

The next quarter of an hour was a cacophonic tempest of curses, cries and clangs, as Camelot's best proved themselves worthy of their titles. Their swings, ducks, dives, thrusts, parries and stabs seemed on the surface a well choreographed dance, at which the knights were the experts and the bandits amateurs, at best. To Merlin, the experience passed by in a haze of barely stopped hits and surreptitiously cast spells, as he did all he could to preserve his own as well as his friends' lives, while trying not to get in anyone's way, or be spotted with his eyes in a shade other than blue.

The ground beneath their feet turned into a mire of brown and red, as leafy loam was stamped and kicked into the puddles and streams of blood. Merlin wanted nothing more than to cover his ears and eyes and hide himself away from the bedlam; not because he was the coward that Arthur used to accuse him of being, but because each shriek of pain and angry roar, every snap of bone and slice of flesh made his magic sizzle and hiss in empathised agony. But he endured. For Arthur and destiny he diverted every near-miss and sidestepped each fatal shot that was directed at himself or his companions.

They were heavily outnumbered, but they were making good progress through the swathes of their enemies. The bouts between individual pairs had not remained in the middle of the valley. As each threat was met, the knights had gradually moved away from each other; leaving a trail of dead and severely wounded in their wake. Now and then, Merlin would glance around and check the relative positions of his comrades; noting the numbers each fought and who was close to being overwhelmed, outflanked or taken unawares. He kept an especial eye on his King, never allowing the man to move more than a few yards from his side if he could help it. And Arthur, for his part, reciprocated; sparing a second or two after beating an opponent to find Merlin amongst the chaos, and if possible catch his eye to gauge the man's mental and physical state. Once reassured, he was free to move on to the next engagement.

It was on looking up (having knocked out his most recent assailant with a conveniently overhanging tree branch) that to his horror Merlin saw Arthur separated from the rest of the knights by at least twenty yards, and surrounded by five of the remaining ruffians; all of whom seemed intent on delivering the fatal blow. Whether they had recognised the King - even in his distinctly non-regal hunting attire - or because they had decided to isolate the fearsome warrior and remove the threat of his great skill before moving on to do the same with the next best of the Camelot entourage, was a debate for a less urgent time. In that moment, all Merlin knew was that Arthur - legendary fighter though he was - would not survive without help. And help was too far away.

Nevertheless, Merlin ran; noting as he did so that he was not the only one with wide eyes and fear in their heart for the seemingly inevitable demise of their King. Leon was yelling out his liege's name; frantically trying to overcome the very tall and powerful man he fought and who seemed determined not to grant the knight's wish and succumb. The other knights were either too engaged in their own battles to notice, or were equally unable to free themselves to aid their troubled leader. At about the same time as Leon managed to deal his opponent a severe enough blow to remove him from his path, and began his race towards Arthur, Merlin realised that neither of them would make it in time. The arms of two of Arthur's antagonists were arcing down towards him - one to the front and one to his rear - and the warlock knew that even if he slowed down time to reach his friend and lend his sword arm, it would not be enough against so many, and of far greater strength and ability than him.

And so without squandering another moment to think about the consequences, Merlin skidded to a halt and flung out both his arms. With a roar that contained all his anger, fear, denial and supplication to any God listening (and willing to aid him), he released his magic and thrust it forwards. Less than a heartbeat later, and in one synchronised move, the five men surrounding Arthur were violently flung back, as if an explosion had taken place at the exact point the King stood. Each of the men flew thirty feet to land in a muddy splatter of leaves, and in one case, hard enough against the trunk of a tree to split it with a loud crack. When they came to a stop in their first and only flight, none moved again.

Arthur - who had been swinging his sword down to meet the blade of the bandit that had been standing in front of him - stumbled a couple of steps when all his counterattack met was air, and his weapon clumsily continued in its arc towards the ground. He quickly righted himself and spun on the spot; breathing heavily and his eyes wide with bewilderment. They darted about the space around him as they took in the still forms of the men he had been fighting - now lying on the ground or slumped beside a broken tree - and his brow crinkled until his gaze rose high enough to see the figure who was standing several yards away from him; his arms still raised and his eyes fading from gold to blue.

Merlin swallowed hard, his breath quickening and heart racing as the full impact of what he had just done fell on him like a bucket of manure from a horse with a stomach upset. He took a step back and slowly drew his arms towards himself; staring at his palms as if they had acted of their own accord and without his permission. But he knew they were no guiltier than the rest of him, and would have to face the ramifications of his actions too.

Unless...maybe it was alright? Perhaps no-one else had seen; busy as they were ridding the world of more men who wished to take what was not theirs to own.

Hesitantly, he raised his head, allowing his hands to fall to his sides, and felt the blood drain from his face when he saw that all weapons had been stilled and all eyes in the clearing were trained on him. Percival held two bandits by the collars of their jackets; his arms poised to clash their foreheads together as if he was breaking eggs for breakfast. The men he held however seemed oblivious to this, as they too stared at Merlin with their mouths gaping. Elyan crouched over a man lying on the ground; too mesmerised to unhook his sword, even though the ribs it was inserted between no longer rose and fell. Gwaine and his opponent stood with swords crossed and bodies held in offensive and defensive positions respectively; as if awaiting a signal to continue their violent debate of who would be around to see the next dawn. Leon was frozen mid-stride, a short distance from Arthur. His fist tightly clasped the hilt of his sword; aiming it at Merlin.

All bar two of those watching him bore expressions of fear and shock. In contrast, Gwaine was grinning widely; his eyes sparkling with what Merlin suspected to be a mixture of victory and connivance (and he dreaded to think what kind of trouble the rogue was dreaming up to involve him in, after the events of today). But it was Arthur's eyes that ultimately riveted Merlin, as he tried to convey with his own as much apology and regret as possible in the absence of words. The King looked as if he was torn between the desire to express his gratitude and cuff Merlin on the side of the head, but then both emotions disappeared from his face; replaced by resignation. Arthur straightened his back, sheathed his sword and began walking towards his servant.

"Sire!" Leon's sharp warning broke the concentration of the servant and the stride of his master, and both turned to look at him. It also served to shatter the silence and stillness of the tableau, and those in it started moving again. The two men in Percival's grip squirmed, but before either could extricate their collars from the rock-hard fist, the knight completed the downward movement of his arms. Following the sickening crunch of impact, he released the now unconscious men to the embrace of the valley floor. Before the last bandit standing could draw his weapon back and even think to attack his opponent, Gwaine swung his fist into the side of the man's head, and he too dropped into an unplanned sleep on the ground.

With all brigandish threats eliminated, Arthur was about to close the gap between himself and his servant (who was still stationary and sweating slightly, despite the chill air), when his second in command hurried to stand in front of him. Leon's sword did not waver from its target; his pose tense and wary as he glared at the warlock.

"Careful, Sire," he said, "I saw it with my own eyes: Merlin has magic. He's a sorcerer."

Percival and Elyan too began to draw closer; their swords in their hands, though not held as high as Leon's. Merlin could see from their expressions that they were torn; duty to the laws they'd sworn to uphold warring with memories of wine, ribbing and tales around campfires with the man they had come to view as the youngest brother in their extended family. Merlin took another step back; his hands lifting in a mollifying gesture, until he realised how similar this looked to a mere minute ago when they had been raised to attack, and he quickly whipped the limbs behind his back, where his fingers pulled at each other nervously. He was entirely too aware of how outnumbered he was, by people he would never dream of defending himself against, and how uncomfortably fast his heart was beating in his chest.

A hand suddenly clamped on his shoulder, and the warlock felt as if he jumped a good few inches in the air; his breath catching in his throat loudly.

"Hey, relax, magic man!" Gwaine chuckled in his ear, and a minute amount of the tension in Merlin's frame dissipated. He gave a tiny smile - that could have easily been mistaken for a twitch of pain - in reply.

"Gwaine!" Leon growled, advancing another step, though a large crease of uncertainty had formed across his forehead at the knight's oddly indifferent attitude and Arthur's total lack of response in the face of apparent betrayal.

"Le-on!" Gwaine countered sarcastically.

"Move away from the magic. wielding. servant. _Gwaine_," the curly-haired knight hissed through gritted teeth.

Merlin felt the hand on his shoulder give him a reassuring clasp before Gwaine removed it to cross his arms and lean up against his friend. "And if I don't?" The scruffy knight's tone was somewhere in the middle of blasé and threatening.

"Alright, that's enough, _Sir_ Gwaine," Arthur suddenly cut in, coming level with his first knight and placing a hand on the man's sword hilt, he gave it a gentle push down. "At ease, Leon," he said calmly.

Leon lowered his weapon a little further, but made no move to put it away; his eyes never leaving Merlin's and the warlock knew a non-verbal warning not to make any sudden moves when he saw one. He lowered his gaze to the forest floor, his cheeks burning despite the huge shiver that wracked the rest of him. He felt rather than saw the King advance towards him, and couldn't bring himself to look up, even when a pair of boots as familiar as his own came into view.

He failed to suppress a flinch when two warm hands were placed at the tops of his biceps, but the hands did not release him after they gave a careful squeeze.

"Merlin?" Arthur's voice was brimming with the concern he would have gone out of his way to deny a scant couple of months ago. "Are you okay?"

Merlin instantly felt his pulse and breathing slow to a less frantic pace, and looked up into the sincere gaze of his friend; forcing a smile onto his lips for a second or two as he nodded. His mouth, however, was still too dry to give a verbal confirmation; no matter how many times he swallowed and pressed his tongue against his palate.

"Are you sure? No cuts, broken bones or headaches you're trying to hide from me? You know I'll think of some way to punish you later if I find you've been lying to me. Those stables have been looking particularly filthy recently..."

"I'm _fine_, Arthur," Merlin managed to grind out; his voice as crusty as the throat it came from. He gave his 'don't treat me like I'm made of glass' look that was starting to become a little abused of late, and Arthur let his hands fall back down to his sides.

"Yeah, Princess," Gwaine joined in, jostling Merlin's shoulder with his own, "We're not all delicate flowers like you. Merlin can take on a few measly bandits, can't you mate?" He took no notice of Merlin's blush and small shrug, and carried on. "That was pretty amazing, you know; the way you threw those men from all the way over here. All at the same time, without even breaking a sweat. Oh and thanks for making that fat one drop his sword earlier; would have bloody taken my arm off, sneaking up on me like that. Which reminds me, shouldn't you be thanking Merlin about now for saving your life, Princess? You would have been dead twice over, by my reckoning, during the last half hour alone!" He turned and quirked an eyebrow at the King, who was frowning indignantly.

"I did!" he protested; his voice shooting up an octave.

"When? I didn't hear you," Gwaine challenged with narrowed eyes, though they also sparkled humorously.

"Well you might have done if you'd let me get a word in edgeways!" Arthur defended himself; matching the bearded knight's stance by crossing his own arms. "Anyway, I'm not sure Merlin deserves it."

"Doesn't des-" the rest of Gwaine's spluttered sentence was cut off by his throat becoming too choked up by objection to finish it. He unfolded his arms to rest his right one on his sword hilt. "Are you really going to make me throw my glove down at your feet,_ your highness_, or would you like to rephrase that statement?"

Merlin turned so he was facing his two friends; his palms held out. "Hey hey, Gwaine, calm down. Honestly I'm not that bothered."

"Well _you_ might not be, mate, but_ I_ am," Gwaine replied, not lifting a finger from his weapon. "It's about bloody time his royalness said thank you for at least one of the times you've kept his head on his ungrateful shoulders."

"Gwaine!" The warning in Arthur's voice was matched by his glare, but the knight was impenitent. "Merlin knows how I feel, so unlike you, I don't need to fawn all over him like some lovesick girl. And besides, I'm a little more concerned about what part of 'Let's keep the magic secret for now' Merlin doesn't understand." He moved his withering gaze onto his servant, who had raised his eyebrows in semi-amused exasperation; his mouth hanging open. "Honestly, Merlin," Arthur continued, shaking his head in disbelief, "it's a wonder you're still alive, when you're so rubbish at keeping secrets!"

"I'll have you know," Merlin replied, the pseudo-hurt expression on his features betrayed by a vacillating smile, "I managed to keep my magic a secret from you for seven years!"

Arthur rolled his eyes and snorted. "Yeah, the Gods only know how, with the terrible excuses you're always giving me."

"That's because I don't keep my brains in my arse," Merlin mumbled, though not particularly quietly. Gwaine sniggered and released his sword hilt at last.

"What's that, _Mer_lin? I didn't quite catch you," Arthur replied, having trouble keeping a straight face himself.

"I rest my case."

The exaggerated clearing of a throat startled the three conversationalists; having completely forgotten that they had company. Leon, Percival and Elyan were standing in a group; their expressions warring between quizzical and alarm, and their swords poised to battle whatever magical force had apparently ensorcelled their friends.

"Um...is someone going to tell us what the hell is going on?" Elyan ventured uncertainly.

Arthur, Gwaine and Merlin turned to look at one another; each hoisting a single eyebrow in silent query of the others' opinions. Gwaine, relinquishing the decision to the two main protagonists, crossed his arms again and with a sly grin, took a step back to enjoy the show.

A smile crept onto Merlin's face; the counter to Arthur's reluctant glower. "So," said the warlock; his tongue pressing on the inside of his cheek, "do _you_ want to tell them, or shall I?"

Arthur rolled his eyes and released a long, slow sigh.

**The End**

* * *

**Glossary of Translations**

_**Tolle oculis rana quod appensum est saltem triginta dies**_ = Take the eyes of a frog that has been hung for at least thirty days (Latin, chapter 13)

_**Ætýne hæftinge**_ = Open lock (old English, chapter 13)

_**Swefe nu**_ = Sleep now (old English, chapter 13 and Epilogue)

_**Drýcræft Gebinden**_ = Magic Binders (old English, chapters 17 and 25)

_**Ic þe þurhhæle þin licsare**_ = I heal you thoroughly from your mortal wound (old English, chapter 23)

_**Gestepe hole!**_ = Heal the injury! (old English, chapter 23)

_**Þurhhæle!**_ = Heal thoroughly! (old English, chapter 23)

_**Þurhhæle bræd!**_ = Heal thoroughly the flesh! (old English, chapter 23)

_**Þurhhæle dolgbenn!**_= Heal thoroughly the wound! (old English, chapter 23)

_**Licsar ge staðol nu!**_ = Behold, you support the mortal wound! (old English, chapter 23)

_**Wel cene hole!**_ = Do good to the perforation! (old English, chapter 23)

_**Ic þe þurhhæle þin licsare mid þam sundorcræftas þære ealdaþ æ!**_= I heal you thoroughly from your mortal wound with those special powers that are ancient! Oh! (old English, chapter 23)

_**Ic ábregdan fram þú dæl þín daru. Ic ágiefe æt þú dæl min handmægen. Forþám Þurhhæle bræd pone cyning**_ = I take from you half your hurt. I give to you half my strength. Therefore heal the king's flesh (old English, chapter 23)

_**Fromum feohgiftum on fæder bearme. Fromum feohgiftum**_ = With splendid gifts in his father's bosom. With splendid gifts (old English, chapter 25)


End file.
